The Armour of Achilles

Agamemnon shot him a stern look.

‘Well?’

‘My lord,’ Thersites replied, ‘there’s been an attack on the gates.’

‘An attack? What do you mean?’

‘A small group of cavalry appeared a short while ago and shot half a dozen guards before wheeling out of range. Then they did it again and now no man dare put his head above the parapet, my lord.’

‘And why is this important enough to bother me?’ Agamemnon said, his icy blue eyes narrowing. ‘Isn’t it obvious I’m in discussion with the council?’

‘But no armed sorties are permitted without your permission, my lords. Are we to give up command of the plains to such a small force?’

‘You’ve always thought yourself a great warrior, Thersites, using the Assemblies to tell us how to run the war,’ Diomedes mocked. ‘So why don’t you take fifty archers out and deal with this small band of horsemen yourself. We give you our permission.’

‘But, my lord, I don’t think they’re men at all,’ Thersites replied, wringing his hands. ‘They look like women.’

There was a sudden discord of different voices as the kings and princes reacted in shock. Only Odysseus and Eperitus stayed quiet, recalling Athena’s warning in the River Scamander and exchanging glances. Achilles, too, kept his silence as he looked thoughtfully at the messenger.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Menelaus scoffed. ‘Women can barely ride, let alone fight!’

‘I’ve struggled with a few in my time, but most of them succumb in the end,’ Agamemnon added, raising a laugh. ‘Send fifty men out to deal with them, as Diomedes ordered. And if they think it beneath themselves to fight women, then tell them they can do what they like with any they take alive.’

There was a roar of laughter and Thersites gave another bow and left. Odysseus watched him go, then turned to Eperitus and whispered: ‘Follow him and see what happens. I have to stay with the council, but I want you to watch from the battlements and observe how these women fight. Hopefully Thersites will see them off, but that oaf’s all scabbard and no sword; he’s bound to make a mess of things.’

Eperitus nodded and followed the hunchback out into the bright sunlight. Arceisius and Polites were waiting by the entrance, playing dice with a group of Athenians.

‘Arceisius, come with me,’ Eperitus ordered.

The two men left Polites looking puzzled and set off in Thersites’s wake. Despite his club-foot, he was surprisingly quick on his legs and they were soon at the walls of the camp. Here, a large group of soldiers had gathered to investigate the rumours of female warriors dealing death from horseback. They were staring curiously at the bodies of the dead guards laid out on the ground, all of whom had long, feathered arrows protruding from their bodies. Their collective voices formed an angry drone that only died a little at the approach of Thersites.

‘I need fifty men,’ Thersites shouted. ‘And Agamemnon says we can do whatever we want with the ones we take alive.’

The angry drone became an aggressive cheer as crowds of men surged forward. Though all were armed to some degree, they were not prepared for battle and very few had full armour. Thersites stared at the collection of soldiers from all the Greek nations, muttering indecisively to himself until, finally, he waved away the men at either edge of the central group and ordered the remainder to form up and turn about to face the gates. There was a frenzied borrowing of shields and helmets from those who had not been selected, and then the guards swung the tall wooden portals back on their hinges.

‘Thersites,’ Eperitus called. ‘Diomedes said to take archers. If those women can pick men from the walls while on horseback, think what they can do to your rabble of spearmen.’

Thersites looked doubtfully at the men he had gathered, who had already begun to exit the gates without waiting for his order, then waved a dismissive hand at the Ithacan captain and followed them out, belatedly shouting the order to advance.

‘What’s this all about?’ Arceisius asked.

‘You’ll see,’ Eperitus replied, pointing to the battlements, where a handful of soldiers were crouching behind the parapet to avoid being shot. ‘Come on.’

They ran up the steps to the narrow walkway and looked out over the plain. Thersites’s company of spearmen had crossed the causeway and were forming into a line three deep – more from experience and training than because of Thersites’s powers of command. The grasslands before them were dotted with sheep and goats from the army’s livestock that had been taken out to pasture earlier that morning; the bodies of half a dozen herdsmen lay scattered among them, face down in the dust with black arrows jutting up from their backs. Further out were the fifty or so archers who had shot them down, every one dressed in furs and seated on a fast pony. They had formed a line beyond bowshot of the walls and were waiting patiently for the force of Greek infantry to march out to them.

Arceisius leaned over the parapet, shielding his eyes from the sun and squinting.

‘Surely . . . surely they’re women!’

Eperitus nodded. His arms were folded as he studied the faces of the Amazons, his superior eyesight enabling him to see the brutal, disdainful looks on their features. They seemed to scorn any armour beyond their shields and leather helmets, and though each carried a tall bow the swords hanging from their hips also spoke of a readiness to fight hand-to-hand. Their limbs were muscular and sun-tanned, and while they did not possess the bulk of male warriors, their hardy aspects nevertheless belonged to seasoned fighters. At their head were a handsome, dark-haired woman and her younger companion, both tall and proud as they surveyed the force of Greeks gathering before the gates. Eperitus wondered whether the Council of Kings would still laugh if they could look on the faces of these women, battle-hardened and filled with calm self-confidence.

The soldiers who had been hiding beneath the protection of the parapet now stood, shamed by the bold presence of Eperitus and Arceisius. Soon they were being joined by the men who had not been chosen to join Thersites’s sortie. As they pressed against the rough, sun-baked battlements, Thersites shouted an order and the small body of spearmen began to move. The Amazons waited until the distance between them had been halved, then the older of the two women at the front gave a signal and the whole company turned and galloped westward towards the shoreline. Thersites’s men gave a shout and wheeled about to follow, quickening their pace in their eagerness to come to grips with the women who had shot down their comrades.

‘They’re putting the sun behind them,’ Arceisius said in a matter-of-fact tone, his chin resting on his fist as he leaned on the parapet.

‘And drawing them out of range of the walls,’ Eperitus added. ‘Thersites is going to wish he’d picked more archers.’

Then the battle started. The Amazons reined in their mounts, stretched back their bows, and released a shower of missiles at the closely packed infantry. The north wind carried faint cries to the watchers on the walls, and as their countrymen advanced on the waiting enemy they left half a dozen lifeless forms on the ground behind them. Eperitus saw the Amazon leader signal to her left and right and a moment later two groups of her followers had split off and were galloping around the flanks and to the rear of the Greeks. A smattering of arrows sped after them from the knot of armoured men, but none found a target among the fast-moving horsewomen. The Amazons fired another volley in reply – this time from three sides – and more soldiers fell and lay still. The rest of Thersites’s company now stopped moving and turned their shields outwards in a defensive circle, from which a tiny huddle of archers began shooting at the surrounding foes. A single rider was hit and slid from the back of her horse. At another command from their leader, the other Amazons now poured a hail of arrows into the centre of the Greek ring, killing the few bowmen and half a dozen others. With the reply from the soldiers now muted, the women began to circle about the wall of shields and pick men off with impunity.

The spectators on the battlements had barely raised a single voice as they watched their countrymen slowly massacred. Then, when there was but a handful of Thersites’s company left, the survivors suddenly began running as a pack towards the Amazon leader. Their frenzied shouts carried on the wind, exciting a chorus of encouragement from the men on the walls, willing them to close on their tormentors and teach them the true meaning of combat. But they were met with a cloud of arrows, felling all but a handful. Eperitus’s sharp eyes saw Thersites fall, too, though he did not rue the loss of such a fool. Then the Amazon leader screamed out a command and the arrows stopped. Spurring her horse forward, she drew her long sword and rode in among the last of the Greeks. Wielding her blade to left and right, the bright sun flashing from the burnished bronze, she brought all five men down in a matter of moments.

‘By all the gods, I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Arceisius exclaimed, standing.

The bodies of the fallen men lay scattered in a broad circle. A few twitched or tried to crawl towards the now distant walls, but the riders were quick to dismount and cut their throats so that soon every last soldier who had exited the gates with such enthusiasm now lay lifeless, their souls already making the long journey to the Underworld.

The tall Amazon who had single-handedly killed the last of the Greeks now came galloping towards the gates, her horse’s hooves kicking up a trail of dust behind her. Some of the men on the walls called for archers, but Eperitus countermanded their hasty shouts.

‘She’s not coming to fight,’ he announced. ‘Look, she’s alone. She’s come to talk.’

She reined her mount in before the gates and raised her gore-stained blade to the men above.

‘I am Queen Penthesilea, daughter of Otrere and Ares,’ she announced in Greek. ‘My Amazons are not slaves to men as the women are in your lands; we are priestesses of Ares, trained from childhood to fight and kill. Tell King Agamemnon he is a craven coward and I challenge him to come forth and face me in combat: the best men in his army against the best women in mine. We will await him here on the plain.’

And with that she rode away again, her laughter ringing out in mockery of the Greeks.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

QUEEN PENTHESILEA

After agreeing that Nestor and Great Ajax should add their own armies to the force being sent to waylay the Aethiopes, the council settled into a detailed discussion of how the ambush should be carried out. Then, as more wine was brought, another spate of urgent words broke out at the mouth of the tent and Eperitus entered, followed by Arceisius.

‘My lords,’ Eperitus began, ‘your orders have been carried out. A company of men left the gates under the command of Thersites the hunchback.’

‘Good! Perhaps now we can continue discussing a real battle,’ Menelaus said. He turned to Nestor and tapped one of the upturned baskets representing the site of the proposed ambush. ‘What about cavalry, Nestor? Is the terrain suitable for—’

‘Thersites and his men were massacred,’ Eperitus continued. ‘Not one of them escaped alive.’

Heads that had been turned to the table now snapped back to stare at Eperitus with shock.

‘That’s impossible!’ Diomedes exclaimed. ‘Fifty men killed by . . . by a pack of women!’

There were mutterings of agreement, but most were too incredulous to speak.

‘It’s not impossible, Diomedes,’ Achilles announced, turning to the Argive king. ‘Athena herself warned me that female warriors – Amazons – were coming to Priam’s aid, and that they were skilled horsewomen and archers. Are they still waiting before the walls, Eperitus?’

Eperitus nodded and leaned on the table, looking around at the faces of the council.

‘Their leader calls herself Queen Penthesilea and sends a message to King Agamemnon, challenging him and the best men in the army to combat. She says . . . she says the King of Men is a coward and no match for her or her companions, whom she claims are priestesses of Ares.’

Diomedes slammed his fist down on the table.

‘Zeus’s beard! Since when have women been allowed to attend on the god of war? They’re not priestesses at all, they’re perversions of nature! I accept the challenge – who’s with me?’

A clamour of angry voices followed, all of them keen to fight the Amazons. Agamemnon raised his hands, commanding silence.

‘Very well, we’ll go out to face these harpies. But first I want to know what it is we’re going up against. Clearly these aren’t ordinary women – tell us, Eperitus, how did they kill fifty of my seasoned warriors?’

Eperitus explained to them what he had seen, and when he had finished answering their questions, the King of Men looked about at their circle of faces and picked out the leaders who would accompany him on the battlefield.

‘I doubt Queen Penthesilea and her priestesses intend to fight us one against one,’ Odysseus said as Agamemnon finished speaking. ‘Their strengths are with the bow and the horse, not the spear and the shield, and if we let them fight on their terms we will lose. But if you’ll listen to me, I have an idea that will rid them of their advantages.’

A little later the thick wooden gates at the centre of the Greek wall swung open and fifty men moved out on to the sun-baked plain. Agamemnon had insisted that they should match the Amazons warrior for warrior, but Odysseus had also advised at least half of the force should be archers, picked from the best of Little Ajax’s Locrians. The remainder were made up of spearmen, including the men who had been chosen from among the council: Agamemnon, Menelaus, Achilles, Diomedes, Machaon, Great Ajax, Odysseus and Medon, the leader of the Malians ever since Philoctetes had been stranded on Lemnos in the first year of the war. They marched across the narrow causeway and formed a line on the other side of the ditch.

Odysseus raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, which had passed its apex in the cloudless sky and was moving towards the ocean. By its unfettered light he could clearly see the bodies of the failed sortie lying in the long grass of the plateau, the tall black stalks of arrows protruding from their still forms. Beyond the litter of corpses and out of range of the walls were the Amazons, sitting patiently on their small horses as they waited for the Greeks to approach. Even among the most wilful and courageous noblewomen he had known – Helen, Clytaemnestra and Penelope chief among them – there had always been something in their expressions that revealed the acceptance, however grudging, that they were socially and physically inferior to men. But these women had none of that. They looked at the greatest of the Greeks as if they were merely swine to be slaughtered, and about as dangerous.

Agamemnon pushed his hand forward and gave the order to advance. Odysseus lifted his shield and moved in a line with the front rank, while the archers followed close behind, also carrying spears and shields to make it look as if the whole company was made up of spearmen. Eperitus was to Odysseus’s left, his grandfather’s shield covering almost his whole body, and Arceisius was to his right, both men watching the Amazons closely and waiting for them to draw their bows. But the priestesses remained motionless, showing no signs of being drawn prematurely into action.

While they were still within bowshot of the walls, Agamemnon raised his hand again and ordered the company to halt. At a signal from Penthesilea, a score of Amazons rode forward and peppered them with arrows. The Greeks raised their shields and the volley caused no casualties. The Amazons fired again and this time a man cried out as an arrow pierced his forearm, but there were no more shouts of pain and no bodies fell into the dust.

‘Keep your shield up,’ Odysseus snapped as one of the Locrians reached for the bow across his back. ‘They’re testing to see if we have any archers. I’ll tell you when you can shoot back.’

As he finished speaking, Penthesilea barked an order and the party of Amazons returned to the main body. Then she signalled left and right and two larger groups rode out to the flanks of the Greek line, ready to force them into a defensive circle as they had done to Thersites. But the men who had come out to meet the Amazons this time were not fools and as the horses galloped to either side and readied their bows to fire, hundreds of archers stood up on the walls of the camp and sent a swarm of arrows towards them. The Amazons turned away just in time and Penthesilea gestured for them to return to the main body.

‘So far, so good,’ Eperitus muttered, touching his fingers to the image of the white hart inside his shield and raising them to his lips.

‘I’m not so sure of that,’ Odysseus replied, looking to where the man who had been hit in the forearm had just fallen heavily on to his back, his dead eyes staring up at the skies above. ‘It looks like they’re using poison arrows.’

‘Here they come!’ Achilles shouted from the centre of the line.

Shields that had been momentarily lowered were raised again as the whole body of Amazons dashed forward and loosed a hail of missiles at the Greeks. Those men who had noticed the death of their comrade drew back from the poisoned tips wherever they broke through the many-layered oxhide; two more were not so lucky and fell back as arrows slipped through the wall of shield and bit into flesh. The Amazons fired another volley, galloping closer this time as they sought to find clearer targets among the Greek line. Two more men fell, one of them dead in an instant as an arrow pierced his eye. The three wounded dragged themselves back from the front line, already weakened by the poison spreading through their veins.

‘Archers!’ Odysseus commanded, raising a hand above his head.

The Locrians threw away their shields and spears and slipped the bows from their shoulders. Two of them fell to the third Amazon volley, but they held their discipline and took careful aim as they waited for Odysseus’s signal.

‘Remember, shoot the horses,’ he shouted, and let his hand fall.

Bowstrings hummed and a score of arrows were sent flocking towards their targets. The distance was still long – Odysseus had predicted Penthesilea would not risk her warriors within range of the Greek spears – so the Locrians had been ordered to aim for the mounts. Eleven horses fell to the first volley, causing shouts of dismay and surprise from the Amazons. A second volley followed in the confusion and a dozen more animals plunged into the dust, bringing their riders down with them. At that moment, Agamemnon punched the air with his spear and the front rank of Greeks charged headlong at the Amazons.

Chaos ensued. With almost half of their number horseless, and many of those trapped beneath the weight of their dead ponies, the mounted Amazons had no intention of leaving their stricken comrades to the oncoming foes. They fired another volley, which fell half among the spearmen and half among the archers behind, but the aim was hurried and only felled two of the now unprotected Locrians. Seeing that her plan to draw the Greeks out and shoot them down at long range had failed, Penthesilea now threw away her bow and drew her sword, screaming for her fighting priestesses to do the same. She was answered by the ringing of blades and shouts of grim defiance as the remaining cavalry cantered forward to form a line. Then their queen kicked her heels back and sent her mount into a gallop, lowering the point of her blade towards the line of Greeks. The others followed and two dozen horses drummed the ground with their hooves, sending up clods of earth as they dashed into battle.

There was no time now for the spearmen to form a shield-wall. Achilles, running ahead of the rest, threw his spear and plucked a screaming Amazon from her mount. The others followed, and though their aim was hasty and poor two other riders and a horse were brought down. Far greater damage was done by the archers, who loosed two rapid volleys into the oncoming enemy so that only nine Amazons remained on horseback to charge down on the Greeks. Penthesilea was the first among them, her sword scything the head from a heavily built soldier as he ran at her with his spear. Driving on into the scattered men, she hewed the forearm from one and stabbed the point of her sword into the face of another. Away to her right, Agamemnon was struggling against one of the queen’s bodyguard, a tall, muscular girl with red hair who reared up her horse to flail at the air above the king’s head, but Menelaus came running up behind and impaled her on his spear. Meanwhile, Evandre drew her bow and sent an arrow into Medon’s throat, killing the Malian captain instantly. She leapt down from her horse, eager to strip the armour from her first kill in battle, when a soldier rushed at her with his sword held in both hands above his head. Her own sword was still in its scabbard, and with no time to draw it out, she threw up her shield and took the blow on the wooden boss. Snatching a dagger from her belt with her other hand, she thrust it into her attacker’s stomach. He fell on top of her, shouting with rage and pain. Then his large hand found her throat, the fingers contracting quickly to squeeze the air from her windpipe. With her strength fast failing, she stabbed again and again until the man’s grip relaxed and he slumped down on top of her, gushing blood from his many wounds.

Achilles, Diomedes and Great Ajax led half the remaining spearmen against the dismounted Amazons, who were now rushing into the fray behind their mounted comrades. The battle was now raging beyond any hope of order or command. Amazon and Greek murdered each other with fanatical hatred, neither side giving any quarter as they threw themselves at each other. A warning shout from Arceisius saved Eperitus’s life as a horse came galloping up behind him and a sword swept down in an arc at his head. He rolled to one side as the rider’s blade cleaved the air above him. A moment later he heard his attacker call out in agony as Arceisius’s spear point caught her in the chest and brought her crashing from her horse. Eperitus had no time to thank him, though; through the dust cloud kicked up by the battling figures, he saw Odysseus struggling to hold back a lone rider whose sword was raining a frenzy of blows down on his raised shield. Eperitus ran to help him, just as an arrow thumped into the woman’s chest and toppled her into the long grass. Looking over his shoulder, Eperitus saw the surviving Locrians running to join the fight, some with bows drawn and others armed with swords or spears.

At the centre of the maelstrom was Penthesilea, the only mounted figure remaining on the battlefield. She withdrew her sword from the throat of the spearman she had just killed and looked around at the chaos that surrounded her. Her plan to decapitate the Greek leadership had failed, and instead she and her Amazons had themselves been drawn into a carefully thought-out trap. As she watched her glorious priestesses battling on every side of her, killing and being killed, she knew there was little chance of any of them ever reaching Thermiscyra again. Their horses were dead or scattered, preventing any quick escape across the plain to the safety of Troy, and the Greeks were already gaining the upper hand – thanks in no small part to a man whose magnificent armour could only belong to their leader, Agamemnon. Penthesilea watched him with admiring eyes, almost forgetting that the warriors he was slaying with such murderous efficiency were her own. Turning back to the battle around her, she saw that those who had charged into the enemy line with her were now outnumbered with the arrival of the Greek archers. And yet, had she not told Priam it was more glorious to die in battle than in bed? She grinned at the thought; and if she could take a few more men with her into the Underworld, the greater her glory would be.

She gripped her sword hard. Nearby, a priestess was fending off the attacks of two Greeks. As Penthesilea watched, she plunged her sword up to the hilt in one of the men’s chests. He grunted and fell back, but the other had seen his opportunity and with a backhanded stroke of his blade sliced the Amazon’s head from her neck. With a shout of rage, Penthesilea spurred her horse at the victor.

Machaon, the famed healer, heard the shout and turned to see the queen of the Amazons charging towards him. He parried the swinging blow aimed at his head and spun about as Penthesilea turned and came at him again. Taking his sword in both hands – his shield having been lost in the earlier fighting – he swung the blade at the horse’s face, intending to bring the animal down and its rider with it. But the queen had guessed his intentions and, reining her pony’s head aside at the last moment, lunged with the point of her sword and found Machaon’s chest. His leather cuirass was useless against her sharpened bronze, which found his beating heart and stopped it in an instant. He fell dead and Penthesilea turned again, looking for her next victim.

As her queen continued to wreak havoc, Evandre pushed away the body of the man she had killed and staggered to her feet. She looked about and saw the bodies of her fellow priestesses lying among the Greeks they had slaughtered. The fighting that had raged so terribly just a short while before was now dying out as the last combats were resolved. Then she looked and saw a man approaching, his golden armour gleaming in the late afternoon sun. He wore a red plumed helmet and on his arm was a shield of magnificent craftsmanship, which seemed to move as her dazed eyes stared at it. But in his other hand was a long spear, running with blood as bright as his plume. There was a fierce scowl on his handsome face, driven by an inhuman anger that filled her with terror. Quickly, she swept her sword from its scabbard and held it out before her, planting her feet apart in the hard earth to give herself balance.

Achilles laughed, knocking the weapon from her grip with a contemptuous swipe of his spear before plunging the point into her soft, unprotected stomach. The gore-spattered Amazon tried to cry out, but instead just opened her mouth in shocked silence as she slumped to her knees, clutching at the fatal wound. She looked up at her killer but did not say a word as he withdrew his spear and placed the point against her chest, pushing it through her heart.

Now only the queen remained. Too far away to save her cousin, she had watched in horror as the warrior she had mistaken for Agamemnon took her life. She cried out in anguish then, kicking back, rode her horse to where Evandre’s body had fallen. The remaining Greeks – no more than a dozen in number – fell back as Penthesilea approached and leapt down from her mount. Kneeling beside the dead girl, she cradled her head in her lap and wiped the hair from her still face.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded in Greek, glowering hatefully at Achilles.

‘I am Achilles, son of Peleus.’

‘The same Achilles that killed Hector? Then I will have twice the satisfaction in sending your ghost down to Hades!’

Letting Evandre’s body slump to one side, she leapt at the Greek and scythed the air with her sword. Achilles checked the blow with his shield and thrust at her stomach with his spear, only to find she had skipped aside and was now behind him. He turned, grinning with pleasure at her agility and skill, then lunged at her again. Penthesilea met his spear with her shield, which collapsed beneath the force of the attack, compelling her to retreat quickly as she tossed the shattered remains of leather and wicker from her arm. He attacked again, and this time she twisted away from the plunging spearhead and in the same movement aimed the point of her sword at Achilles’s chest. It scraped across the rim of his shield and sank through the bronze of his breastplate, penetrating the flesh beneath his right collarbone.

Achilles stumbled backwards in pain and shock, looking down at the blood on Penthesilea’s blade as it was withdrawn from the wound. Then, his face contorted with rage, he leapt forward and drove his sword through Penthesilea’s breastbone, killing her instantly and sending her lifeless body spinning back to join the other corpses in the long grass.

Achilles slumped to his knees, touching his fingers in disbelief to the blood that was seeping through the gash in his armour. Ajax and Diomedes rushed to help him.

‘The blood’s already stopped flowing,’ Diomedes announced in amazement as he lifted away Achilles’s breastplate and touched his fingertips to the gore-drenched tunic beneath.

‘Of course it has,’ Achilles snapped, knocking his hand away impatiently and standing. ‘I can bleed just like any other man, but my wounds heal rapidly – always have.’

‘Damned witch!’

They turned to see a hunched figure standing over the body of Penthesilea.

‘Thersites!’ Eperitus exclaimed. ‘We thought you were all dead.’

‘They are,’ the hunchback answered, indicating the soldiers of the first sortie who lay all where the Amazons had shot them. ‘But I feigned death among the corpses of my friends while the gods protected me from the arrows of these bitches. They didn’t protect you though, did they?’

He looked down hatefully at the fallen queen, then lifted his spear and began stabbing at her eyes. His mad laughter rang out, shocking the others until Achilles leapt forward and pulled the weapon from his hands. He snapped it over his knee and threw the two halves into the long grass.

‘How dare you?’ he shouted, seizing Thersites’s tunic. ‘How dare you defile the body of a warrior who was worth a hundred cowardly scum like you!’

‘Don’t preach to me about abusing the dead, Achilles! You’re the one who refused to bury Hector and dragged his body behind your chariot every day while you were mourning Patroclus, and if any Trojan deserved honour, it was him!’

‘Shut your vile mouth!’

‘And why are you any less vile than I am?’ Thersites continued angrily, heedless of the murderous rage that was building up in Achilles.

‘Achilles is a royal prince and his mother is a goddess,’ Odysseus warned as Eperitus and Diomedes took hold of Achilles’s arms and pulled him away. ‘You, Thersites, are a foul-minded commoner who needs to remember his place if he wants to live.’

‘Really?’ Thersites sneered, emboldened by the fact that Achilles was being restrained. ‘Or is it that this Amazon not only pierced the noble prince with her sword, but with her looks also? He fell for her in the same moment he killed her, and now he wants to ravage her corpse while the flesh is still soft and warm. Isn’t that so, Achilles?’

With a great bellow of fury, Achilles threw off the arms that were holding him and ran at his accuser. Thersites could only squeak in terror before the prince’s fist smashed into his face, killing him instantly.

Chapter Forty

CALCHAS’S DREAM

Mentor wrapped his double cloak more tightly around himself and pressed on up the steep path that led to the top of Mount Neriton. The wind was howling and the sun had already sunk beyond the rim of the western ocean, making it difficult to find his footing in the deepening twilight. Behind and below him he could see the glow of lamps and fires starting to show in the windows of the town, and over to his right similar clusters of lights were winking out at him from the dark-blue flanks of Samos.

Why Halitherses should want to meet with him in such a remote place as the top of Mount Neriton, he could not be certain. But he could guess. Eupeithes had an uncanny ability for finding out bits of information he had no right knowing, and Halitherses had often warned Mentor to be careful of spies. Clearly, his old friend wanted to discuss Eupeithes and he did not want eavesdroppers. And, if Mentor’s own concerns were anything to judge by, Halitherses probably wanted to talk with him about the way power was being slowly wrested from their fingers.

Not that either man blamed Penelope for allowing Oenops on to the Kerosia. Mentor knew from years of experience how persuasive Eupeithes could be, and the only men he had ever known who seemed totally immune to his arguments were Laertes and Odysseus – Laertes through sheer hatred of his old nemesis, and Odysseus because no man knew his own mind better than the king. And how Mentor wished his friend were back on Ithaca to put things back in order: having to face the combined forces of Eupeithes, Oenops and Polyctor in the Kerosia was now a regular struggle, but one on which the well-being of Ithaca depended.

By the time he reached the top of Mount Neriton, the first stars were peppering the sable sky and the chill of a cloudless spring evening was biting at his toes and fingertips. The lookout post – a thatched canopy on four stilts that gave protection from the sun but not the wind or rain – was deserted. The lookout had passed Mentor on his way back to the town after sunset, but Mentor had expected to find Halitherses there waiting for him. Something must have delayed him, he told himself as he stamped his feet against the cold and looked out at the dark mass of the Peloponnese in the distance. As he often did whenever he came up to the lonely peak, he wondered what Odysseus and the other Ithacans were doing at that moment, far off in Ilium. Had it not been for a traitor’s sword severing his hand twenty years ago, he would have been there with them, winning glory on the battlefield rather than fighting a political war where enemies were undeclared and masqueraded as friends, biding their time for the right moment to strike.

Mentor suddenly stopped stamping his feet and froze. Something at the unconscious extremities of his senses told him another human presence was with him. And maybe more than one.

‘Halitherses?’ he asked, turning about and looking into the darkness. ‘Speak up, man. What sort of time and place do you call this to meet up?’

There was no reply, but by the light of the bloated moon that was rising slowly in the north-east he saw a tall figure rising up from the stones at the edge of the small plateau on which he stood. Sensing more movement, he turned to his right and saw another, equally tall figure rise up. A naked blade gleamed in his hand.

Mentor felt for the sword hanging at his hip and slid it from its scabbard. As he balanced it in his one hand, he saw a third figure standing to his left, ensuring he was now trapped on all sides.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

The only answer was the dull, menacing scrape of swords being drawn. It was answer enough: the men were there to kill him, doubtless sent by Eupeithes to reduce his opposition in the Kerosia. Halitherses’s summons was false, of course, and had merely been the bait to draw him into an ambush, delivered by a palace slave who had been deceived into relaying the message. It was a well-laid trap and Mentor’s chances of survival were thin: he had no armour and had not used his sword in anger for two decades. As his opponents drew nearer he could see they were Taphians, among the most ruthless enemies a man could face. Mentor instinctively flexed his knees and prepared to meet the first attack.

It came quickly. The man to his left rushed at him, grinning with malicious confidence. Mentor sidestepped the move and retreated so that he was now facing all three assailants. His heart beating fast, he withdrew to the edge of the plateau. Behind him he could hear the sea crashing against the rocks below, but at least now the Taphians could not run a sword through his back.

‘Jump and save us the trouble,’ one of the assassins suggested, his voice husky and heavily accented.

‘Jump yourselves.’

The man spoke to his comrades and advanced, intending to finish the Ithacan himself. He leapt forward and their blades clashed, glinting in the moonlight. Mentor was barely able to react in time to the Taphian’s rapid cuts and fell back, feeling the ground fall away sharply behind his heel. The man smiled at him, confident of his superiority, then lunged with the point of his sword at Mentor’s chest. Mentor turned aside at the last moment and lashed out blindly with his own blade, finding by grim chance the angle between the Taphian’s jaw and neck. If Mentor had not used his sword in a long time, it did not mean he did not keep a keen edge on it; the bronze opened up his enemy’s throat and he fell back, choking as he died.

His companions now raised their blades and came at the lone Ithacan together, but Mentor knocked the first attacker aside and ran through the gap towards the top of the path that led back down to the town. The remaining Taphians ran after him, cursing in their own dialect. Mentor reached the path quickly enough, but his pursuers were close behind and their legs were longer and faster than his. He paused briefly as the land fell away before him to reveal the sharp, boulder-strewn slope and the lights of the town below. Ignoring the meandering path, he gave a shout and jumped, landing in a heap some way down and rolling for a short distance until he was stopped by a large boulder. Bruised and disorientated, he staggered to his feet and reached for his sword where it had fallen in the long grass. A moment later, he heard a thud and a cry as one of the Taphians fell awkwardly only a few paces away.

The man had chosen to take the same risk as Mentor – leaping down the hill instead of following the safer, slower path – but had not enjoyed the Ithacan’s good fortune and appeared to have injured himself. Looking up, Mentor saw the man’s companion shuffling in a direct line down the slope, avoiding the boulders while trying to prevent his momentum from taking his legs away beneath him. In that split moment Mentor had the choice to continue fleeing in the hope that he would reach the town before his pursuers, or to attack while his enemies were momentarily divided. He gripped his sword and with a shout ran at the nearest man. The Taphian struggled to his feet, weapon still in hand, and turned to see the Ithacan charging at him. He lunged clumsily and died with Mentor’s sword in his chest, but not before his own bronze had pierced his assailant’s thigh.

Mentor cried out, more in surprise at the sudden, burning sensation in his leg than at the pain of it. But before he could give it another moment’s thought the last Taphian was upon him, leaping down from the slope with his blade in both hands above his head. It narrowly missed Mentor, who twisted aside at the last moment, and struck a boulder, sending a flash of sparks into the darkness. Mentor’s instinct was to run, but his wounded leg gave way and all he could do was turn as his attacker bore down on him again. The sword passed beneath his arm, where Mentor trapped it with his own in instinctive desperation. Together, the two men fell into the grass and the Taphian cried out as Mentor brought the hilt of his sword down into his face. He was too close to stab and Mentor felt himself weakening from loss of blood, so he brought the hilt down again, and then again, continuing until the man’s face became so disfigured that it no longer looked human. Eventually, the muffled groaning of his victim died out and he stared at Mentor with dead eyes. Mentor felt exhaustion overcome him and he let his sword slip from his hand before he passed out.

Eperitus leaned back in his chair and stared across at the wide bay. The hulls of the ships stood black against the sparkling ocean, while in the foreground was the barrow that had been built over the ashes of Patroclus’s funeral pyre. Its sun-baked sides were bare but for the prostrate figure of Achilles, who lay there in mourning for his lost friend.

‘When will he give up this excessive grief?’ Diomedes asked in a strained voice, clearly annoyed. ‘Doesn’t he care what the rest of us think, or even the effect he’s having on his own Myrmidons?’

‘You forget we’ve known him much longer than you have, Diomedes,’ said Peisandros, whose broad abdomen was tightly squeezed between the arms of his chair. ‘We Myrmidons expect Achilles to be excessive, whether it’s in war, anger, love or grief. We suffer with him for the loss of Patroclus and our loyalty to him is as strong as ever.’

Odysseus finished his porridge and dropped the wooden bowl on to the ground by his feet.

‘Yes, but it wavered during his feud with Agamemnon, when he refused to fight,’ he said.

‘A few disgruntled comments,’ Peisandros countered with a dismissive flick of his hand. ‘Would you expect anything less of warriors being kept back from battle?’

‘Soldiers will be loyal to their leaders, for the most part,’ said Diomedes. ‘But Achilles shouldn’t expect to get away with everything. Thersites was a distant cousin of mine; it’s not a fact I’m proud of, but what Achilles did to him was nothing short of murder. The gods will hold him to account for it.’

‘The gods care more for Achilles than Thersites, my friend,’ Odysseus said, leaning across and patting Diomedes’s shoulder. ‘Besides, the hunchback had it coming. He’s crossed us all in his time – you and me included – but he should’ve known better than to keep goading the likes of Agamemnon and Achilles. After all, even I wouldn’t dare accuse Achilles of wanting to commit necrophilia!’

He gave Diomedes a smile, but the Argive king continued to stare across at Achilles stretched over Patroclus’s barrow. As silence fell between them again, Eperitus took a mouthful of wine and let his thoughts wander to the night before. With the defeat of the Amazons, he had returned to his hut to find the hearth ablaze and Astynome lying naked in his bed. This was the third time she had smuggled herself into his hut, since Priam had taken Hector’s body eleven days before, and Eperitus’s joy grew with each unexpected appearance. After they had made love she had rested her head upon his chest and, with her long fingers tracing the lines of his rib muscles, asked him whether he had thought any more of Apheidas’s offer.

‘I won’t betray my oath to Odysseus,’ he had replied flatly.

‘But the Aethiopes will arrive soon,’ she had sighed. ‘Some say they’ll drive the Greeks back into the sea and bring victory to Troy. Others claim they’ll breathe new life into our defences and prolong the siege for a few more years. Either way, isn’t it better to have peace now? If your father thinks he can negotiate an end to the war, why don’t you put away your anger and speak to him? I can’t bear to be apart from you for much longer; I want the fighting to stop so that we can be married.’

Eperitus thumbed a tear from her cheek and stroked her hair. ‘So do I, my love. But my hatred for Apheidas is irrelevant now. These Aethiopes that Priam puts his faith in will never set foot in Troy; we’ve set an ambush for them in the hills about the road to Troy. And so long as Achilles is still fighting and Helen is held prisoner by Paris, there’ll never be peace between Greeks and Trojans, whatever my father might say.’

They had talked a little while longer, about the war and whether it would ever end, but Astynome said nothing more about Apheidas’s offer. Instead, her tone had become increasingly depressed as she convinced herself that she and Eperitus would never now be together and find the happiness they sought. She had dripped tears on to his chest and wound her limbs tighter about his body, while he had tried to assure her the city was prophesied to fall before the end of the year and that they could then be married. But the prospect of Troy’s destruction had only made her more tearful. Eventually they had drifted into sleep, and when Eperitus awoke with the first glimmer of dawn Astynome had already gone.

Peisandros lifted the wineskin from the sand beside his chair and poured a little in his cup before offering it to the others. Diomedes refused, but as Odysseus took the skin a series of horn calls rang out from the gates. Recognizing the alarm, all four men jumped up from their seats and looked to the walls that lined the slopes above them. The rest of the camp had also burst into life and men were already hurrying to and fro, pulling on armour and retrieving weapons as they wondered what new threat could be calling them to arms. Then, through the middle of the chaos, a single horseman came weaving his way between the tents and campfires, cutting a path down towards the beach. Eperitus recognized him as one of Nestor’s captains, who should have been with the expedition that had set out that morning to ambush the Aethiopes. He ran to intercept him, closely followed by Odysseus, Diomedes and Peisandros.

‘Whoaa!’ Eperitus called, holding up his arms. ‘Where are you heading and what’s your hurry, man?’

The rider heaved back on the reins and looked down at the four men. His face was caked with blood and dust and his eyes were wide with fear and urgency.

‘I have a message for the King of Men and for him only. Many lives depend on me getting it to him, so I beg you not to delay me any more than I have been already.’

‘Get on your way, then,’ said Achilles, striding up behind the others, his grief temporarily put aside. ‘We’ll follow.’

The horseman kicked back his heels and gave a shout, sending his mount galloping the short distance to Agamemnon’s brilliant white tent, where he dismounted and ran to speak to the guards. They seemed reluctant to let him enter, but the arrival of Achilles, Diomedes and Odysseus, accompanied by Eperitus and Peisandros, quickly persuaded them to relent. The senior soldier, one of Agamemnon’s personal bodyguard in full ceremonial armour, led them into the tent.

‘What’s the meaning of this interruption?’ Agamemnon snapped, rising from his fur-draped throne as the captain of the guard entered. ‘I gave orders not to be— Ah, Achilles! And Diomedes and Odysseus, too. Well, come in, come in.’

The King of Men appeared to be alone but for a few slaves, who hurried to bring chairs for the newcomers. He waited until all were seated – except for the battle-grimed horseman, who insisted on standing with his helmet in the crook of his arm and a look of disciplined impatience on his face – then nodded for the captain of the guard to leave. As kraters of wine were brought by the slaves and libations poured to the gods, Agamemnon’s gaze scanned across the seated guests, finally coming to rest on Achilles.

‘And to what do I owe the pleasure, Prince Achilles? Something to do with the alarm being called, no doubt.’

Achilles did not answer, nodding instead towards the standing horseman. The messenger took this as permission to speak.

‘My lords, I’ve ridden directly from the battle against the Aethiopes.’

‘Then you bring news of victory, I expect,’ Agamemnon said, in a tone that seemed to warn the man against telling him otherwise.

Eperitus looked at the horseman. From the moment he had seen him riding through the camp he had sensed that the news he carried was bad; now, as he watched the man’s urgent demeanour deflate before the King of Men, he knew the ambush against the Aethiopes had met with disaster.

‘No, my lord.’

‘No?’ Diomedes questioned. ‘But Nestor assured us the ambush couldn’t fail.’

‘And the king was right, sir. Or would have been, if it hadn’t been for a cruel twist of the fates. We took up our positions long before the enemy came into view on the road below, and when they finally appeared – every one of them as black as deepest night, with blood-red eyes and snarling teeth – they didn’t know we were waiting for them. I’m sure of it.’

‘So what happened?’ Eperitus asked, trying to suppress his eagerness.

‘What happened, sir?’ the man replied, turning to Eperitus with an incredulous smile on his lips. ‘The Trojans arrived! We heard a clamour of fighting and horn calls behind us and a moment later a mass of chariots and cavalry was topping the ridge and charging down towards us. We turned, but what could we do? They were in among us in moments, killing at will and laughing as they did so. Then the black men on the road below saw what was happening and came rushing up to close the trap. By an ill chance, or the malice of the gods, the Trojans had sent a force to meet the Aethiopes just at the place where we had planned to ambush them!’

Odysseus shot Eperitus a sceptical glance, then turned to the messenger.

‘Then what happened? How did you escape?’

‘I didn’t escape, my lord,’ the man replied proudly, raising his chin a little despite the tears of anguish in his eyes. ‘Little Ajax and Nestor pulled us together, while Great Ajax brought the reserve over the ridge to our aid. Though we were being attacked on three sides and were badly outnumbered, we showed no fear and for a while held our own against them. Then Paris shot one of Nestor’s horses, sending his chariot toppling and the king with it. Antilochus saved his father’s life and helped him to escape from the black spearmen, but as they were retreating the Aethiope leader cut Antilochus down and stripped him of his armour.’ At this, the others in the tent stirred uncomfortably in their seats and looked at each other in silent shock, while Achilles glowered at the messenger in disbelief. ‘From that point on we were fighting a lost battle. With Nestor wounded and his son dead, the Ajaxes commanded the rest of us to retreat. I and five others were ordered to ride back to the camp and bring reinforcements. I’m the only one who made it through.’

‘You did well,’ Diomedes said, rising from his seat and offering the rider his wine. He drank greedily.

Achilles also stood.

‘You’ll have your reinforcements!’ he said, punching the palm of his hand. ‘I’ll order my Myrmidons to arm at once!’

‘You’re forgetting yourself, Achilles,’ said Agamemnon. ‘As the elected leader of this army, that decision is mine to make, not yours.’

A sudden silence fell in the airy tent, disturbed only by the brushing of the wind across the flaxen walls. Eperitus watched as Achilles and Agamemnon locked eyes in a battle of wills.

‘How many men do the Ajaxes need?’ Agamemnon asked, breaking eye contact and looking at the messenger.

‘They did not say, my lord. As many as can be spared. There must be at least five thousand of the combined enemy.’

‘We will send five thousand against them, then. But under Diomedes’s command.’

‘Ten thousand,’ Achilles demanded, stepping forward. ‘With me at their head.’

‘No,’ Agamemnon replied, fixing the prince with his icy blue eyes. ‘You have fought hard and earned your rest, Achilles. Diomedes can go, and he’ll have enough to chase away the Trojans and their new allies, no more.’

Achilles took another step towards Agamemnon and for a brief moment Eperitus thought the prince was going to draw his sword and strike the arrogant and imperious King of Men dead. Remembering his promise to Clytaemnestra, he moved forward in his chair and laid a hand on the pommel of his own weapon.

‘Give me ten thousand soldiers,’ Achilles insisted, ‘and I will give you Troy. Calchas once said the city would fall in the tenth year, and I say that day has come. I can feel it in my blood, Agamemnon – can’t you?’

There was such a passion in Achilles’s voice that, for a moment, Eperitus believed him. Even Agamemnon’s calculating gaze was suddenly eager as the Mycenaean king slowly nodded. Then a movement in the shadows at the back of the tent broke the spell and a stooping figure shuffled forward into the light.

‘It’s true I said Troy would fall in the tenth year, but it won’t fall today. And it will never fall by your hand, Achilles.’

Every eye turned to look at Calchas, the seer, as he tipped back the hood from his bald head and peered round at Agamemnon’s guests.

‘So this was why you didn’t want to be disturbed,’ Achilles sneered, glancing at Agamemnon. ‘And I thought you’d stopped taking your lead from this fool!’

‘I came here of my own will,’ Calchas responded. ‘To tell Agamemnon of the dream Apollo sent me last night.’

‘Another wine-soaked fantasy?’ Diomedes mocked.

Calchas ignored him and peered up into Achilles’s eyes, scrutinizing him closely.

‘I dreamed of your death, Achilles. Today. That is why Agamemnon wants Diomedes to command the reinforcements.’

The colour drained from Achilles’s face, leaving him pale as he stared back at Calchas.

‘Who will kill me?’ he asked, slowly. ‘The Aethiope king?’

‘Have no fear of the blacks, or of any mortal. It is by the hand of Apollo himself that you will perish, in vengeance for his son, King Tenes, whom you slew.’

Achilles turned away and looked down at the fleeces beneath his feet, balling his hands into fists and breathing deeply.

‘You’re wrong, Calchas,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You’re wrong, I tell you! You; my mother; the endless prophecies about me – they’re all wrong! Weaklings are slaves to the Fates, but the real test of greatness is to command one’s own destiny.’

‘Achilles is right,’ Odysseus said. He rose from his chair and placed his hand on the prince’s shoulder, staring at him with fervent eyes. ‘A man does not have to be subject to oracles and the will of the gods. It was once in my power to overturn a prophecy and forge my own future, and it will be so again – as it can be for you, son of Peleus!’

Achilles nodded at the king of Ithaca and smiled as his confidence began to return. Then he drew his sword and pressed the point against Calchas’s breastbone.

‘Tell me, priest, what does Apollo say about your fate today? Will you live or die? Is that the will of the gods or mine? Either way, you are a fool and a weakling who blunders through life like a blind man, staggering from one circumstance to the next. But I am no plaything of any god – not Apollo or even Zeus himself. Today I will take the Scaean Gate and slaughter every Trojan I come across. I will dash their children’s brains out against the walls of their houses and rape their wives in their own beds. And before I sleep in Priam’s palace tonight, I will summon you to my side and allow you to choose your own fate – to beg my forgiveness for your lies, or to wash my blade with your blood!’

Achilles sheathed his sword again and turned to Agamemnon.

‘My lord, I will wait outside the walls with Odysseus here and a thousand of my Myrmidons. I give you leave to choose the other nine thousand men under my command, but respectfully ask that you do not delay in sending them. We have a battle to fight and a city to conquer.’

Chapter Forty-One

MEMNON

Once more the plain beyond the walls of the Greek camp was filled with rank upon rank of soldiers, their spear points gleaming in the fierce sunlight as they marched towards the call of battle. At their head were the chariots of their commanders: Achilles foremost – splendid in his god-made armour and spoiling for the fight – with Odysseus, Menelaus, Diomedes and Idomeneus each leading their own factions. On either side of the massed infantry were the cavalry, the horses’ legs hidden beneath the haze of dust raised by their hooves so that they seemed to be floating to war.

Standing on the woven floor of his chariot, with Arceisius at the reins, Eperitus’s eyes flicked constantly between the north-east horizon, where the battle would still be raging, and his king and friend in the next chariot. Odysseus’s eyes were fixed firmly ahead, having lost none of their passion since he and Achilles had set out to deny the Fates and take the gates of Troy. Turning his gaze once more to the distance, he thought he could see a cloud of dust through the heat haze. He leaned forward across the chariot rail, squinting slightly, then turned his head to listen. And then he heard it – the thrilling and terrible sound of battle. Still some way off, lost among the folds of grassland, the din of clashing weapons and raised voices had melded into a low hum that sounded like heavy rainfall.

‘Achilles,’ he shouted, pointing in the direction of the noise. ‘That way.’

Achilles spoke to Peisandros, who turned the team of Xanthus and Balius a little more to the east before raising their pace to a canter. The infantry followed, wheeling slightly and then breaking into a heavy jog. A force of cavalry dashed forward from each flank to scout the positions of the enemy and the beleaguered Greeks ahead of them, but even before the first messengers could return the army had topped a low ridge and could see the battle in the near distance.

‘Can you make out what’s going on?’ Arceisius asked Eperitus, his eyes burning with excitement. ‘What’s happening?’

‘The Greeks are surrounded, by the looks of it. Cut off, with enemies on every side.’

Although he could not see in the detail that Eperitus could, Achilles knew the situation was dire and he was not a man to dither when action was needed. He turned to the infantry and barked out a series of commands. Spears were lowered and shields moved from backs to shoulders as the thick lines of Greek warriors closed formation. On either side of them the remainder of the cavalry dashed forward, while Achilles raised his enormous ash spear over his head and gave the signal to advance. At the same time Odysseus lifted a thickly muscled arm in the air and drove it forward, just as Menelaus, Diomedes and Idomeneus did the same. The army gave a cheer in response and began to move down the long, gentle slope that led to the battle.

Arceisius snapped the reins and the chariot bounced forward across the rocky ground. Eperitus took one of his spears from its leather socket on the inside of the cab and balanced it over his right shoulder. As they drew closer to the fighting he could see the force of Greeks standing back-to-back in a circle, where the Trojan cavalry had cut off their retreat and forced them back in on themselves, only to be caught and surrounded by the combined forces of the Trojan and Aethiope spearmen. The southerners reminded Eperitus of giant spiders, with their long, spindly limbs and dark skin; and though he had seen Aethiope slaves before, the sight of thousands of black warriors crawling over the plain filled him with awe.

Fierce hand-to-hand combat was raging at every point. Men tried to skewer each other with their spears, but there was no time to exult or plunder the armour from their fallen foe if they succeeded. Instead, every dead enemy was replaced by another, and another, as Greek or Trojan, black man or white, fought with a raging fury to the death. It was then that Eperitus noticed the gigantic figure of Ajax, faced by an equally tall, though rangy, Aethiope. The two men had drawn their swords and were hacking away at each other with one angry blow after another. Both skilfully parried the attacks of their opponent, but the black warrior landed two strikes for every one of Ajax’s and the Greek was faltering. The tall shield of sevenfold leather that he usually wielded with ease now seemed to be made of lead as he swung it this way and that against his enemy’s skilful lunges, while his thick legs trembled under his own weight. It seemed the mighty stalwart of Agamemnon’s army would not endure for much longer.

Then a series of shouts rang out from among the Trojans and Aethiopes. At last, they had spotted the mass of reinforcements storming down the slope towards them, and with a flurry of panicked activity many broke off from the fighting and hurried to form a line of spears between the newcomers and their struggling countrymen. The Trojan cavalry pulled away from the battle and formed two groups on either side of the spearmen, ready to meet the opposing swarms of Greek horsemen. At that moment Achil-les’s voice roared out above the cacophony of battle as he spurred his chariot forward into a headlong charge. It was too early, Eperitus thought to himself: any ordinary team of horses would be blown long before they could carry a battle-laden chariot into the lines of Trojans and Aethiopes. But Achilles’s horses were not of ordinary stock. They were the immortal offspring of the Zephyrus, the west wind, given as a wedding present at the marriage of Peleus and Thetis. And few who watched them leap forward into battle could have doubted their lineage as they took their mighty master sweeping towards the spear-tipped ranks of the enemy. While the rest of the Greeks were just beginning their charge, Xanthus and Balius bore down on the Aethiopes with such fury that the spearmen’s courage failed long before that of the horses, and throwing down their weapons they turned and ran into the thick files of men behind them. Achilles was upon them in an instant, plunging his spear into their exposed backs and sending many of their ghosts to Hades.

Arceisius lashed the reins with a shout and sent the chariot rushing down the grassy slope towards the enemy. Eperitus shifted the balance of his spear in his cupped hand and eyed the wall of black spearmen that was awaiting him. For a moment, as the wind tugged at his beard and he watched the flowing manes of his two horses ahead of him, he felt as if he and Arceisius were alone and detached from the world around them. The thunder of hooves filled his ears and the whole chariot shook beneath his feet. He looked out at the long grass that covered the ground and thought of the sea, as if he was leaning over the prow of a speeding galley with the surface of the ocean flashing past on either side. And then he glanced to his left and saw Odysseus shouting at the top of his voice – though Eperitus could not hear his words in the cacophony of battle – and pulling back his spear over his shoulder. Eperitus did the same, gripping the chariot rail with one hand and taking aim along the shaft at the mass of scowling Aethiopes ahead of him. Yelling as loud as his lungs and the competing wind would allow him, he launched his spear.

Whether it found its mark he never knew. A few heartbeats later he had swept his long sword from its scabbard and was staring in heady exhilaration at the gleaming spear points ahead of him. Arceisius let out a whoop of joy as he slapped the reins one final time across the backs of the horses and drove them on into the enemy. Suddenly it was as if their spears had been swept aside by the hand of some benevolent god, for both horses and men were unscathed as they broke through the terrified Aethiopes, Eperitus’s sword hacking at their uplifted faces and dispatching many to the Underworld. For a long, glorious moment in time he felt almost immortal, as if no weapon could harm him, as if his chariot were surrounded by a pocket of invulnerability that could not be pierced. Though there were enemy spearmen on all sides, yelling and stabbing at him, his shield thwarted every attack while the point of his sword sent one assailant after another to oblivion.

Then they were through the hastily assembled line of defenders and driving across open grassland once more. The main battle was now ahead of them and they could see the backs of their enemies as they were busy attacking the besieged remnants of the Greeks. To one side, cut off and surrounded by Aethiopes, Ajax was still struggling to fend off the attacks of the tall Aethiope, who Eperitus realized could only be the famed Memnon. His handsome face grinned at his fading opponent with the assured confidence of a hunter closing in upon a wounded lion.

Arceisius saw the unequal fight and, without waiting for orders, steered the chariot towards it. Sensing movement to his left, Eperitus turned to see three Trojan horsemen dashing towards him, their spears couched beneath their arms as they leaned into the attack. He swung his shield around to face them, but as the nearest rider approached he gave a sudden lurch and tumbled forward from his mount, a long ash spear protruding from his back. His comrades turned in panic, just as Achilles came racing up in his chariot and sliced the top off the nearest man’s head with his sword. The remaining horseman veered aside, straight into the path of a third Greek chariot. Odysseus grinned triumphantly and hurled his spear, catching the Trojan in the throat and spilling him from the back of his horse. Eperitus looked beyond the speeding chariots of Odysseus and Achilles and saw that the mass of newly arrived Greek spearmen had already crushed the thin line of Aethiope infantry and were yelling with bloodlust as they charged to the aid of their encircled countrymen.

‘Memnon’s mine!’ Achilles shouted as his chariot swept past Eperitus and raced to save Ajax.

A scattering of spears split the air above Eperitus and Arceis-ius’s heads, warning them that the other Aethiopes were no longer ignorant of their approach. As Odysseus drew alongside – Eurybates gripping the reins and driving the horses as fast as they would go – Eperitus looked ahead to see a score of black warriors running towards them and casting their spears. Two found their marks in the breast of one of Eperitus’s horses, bringing it down in an instant. The last thing he saw as the chariot skewed to the left and threw him from the car was Achilles driving into a line of Aethiope warriors, who had hurried forward to defend their king from the new opponent. Then he hit the ground with a thump and everything went dark.

He came to lying on his back and staring up into the noon sun. The wreckage of the chariot was a few paces away; the fact that one of the wheels was still spinning, and the surviving horse was struggling to get to its feet, told him that he had only been unconscious for a few moments. Then he saw the bloodied and inert form of Arceisius lying beneath the broken cab. He tried to raise himself, but was forced back down by a surge of pain. Grunting through gritted teeth, he tried again and managed this time to turn on to his side. Then a tall shape blocked out the sun and he looked up to see a black warrior standing over him, his long spear in his hands. Eperitus rolled aside just as the bronze spear point bit into the hard soil where a moment before his stomach had been. Suddenly a wave of energy burst through his body, eliminating the pain of his wounds and giving him fresh strength. Grabbing the neck of the spear for leverage, he swung his right leg into the back of his attacker’s left knee and knocked him on to his back. As he fell, Eperitus drew back his leg and kicked with all his force, connecting with the man’s head and snapping it sideways.

Three more Aethiopes came running up, their spear points lowered towards him. Eperitus spotted his shield, but it was beyond his reach and he knew he would never get to it in time. Then he saw two figures come charging in from the corner of his vision. Eurybates despatched one of the Aethiopes with a slashing cut of his sword that sheared through flesh and bone, while Odysseus sank the point of his spear into the throat of another, before pulling it out again and ramming the sharpened base of the shaft into the remaining man’s groin. As the man staggered backwards, clutching at his wounded neck and coughing blood, Odysseus finished him off with a thrust of his spear.

‘No time to lie around,’ he said, turning to Eperitus and pulling him to his feet. ‘Achilles and Ajax need our help.’

Eperitus retrieved his shield and a discarded spear then – seeing that Eurybates was helping Arceisius to his feet and that the young Ithacan was not badly hurt – followed Odysseus towards where they had last seen Achilles driving into the Aethiope shield-wall. All that remained there now was Achilles’s chariot with Peisandros at the reins, surrounded by a circle of black bodies. Peisandros said nothing, but pointed to the east where a little further on they could see Achilles standing in front of an exhausted Ajax, who knelt with his head bowed and blood and sweat shining on his powerful limbs. Achilles’s magnificent armour gleamed in the bright midday sun and somehow he had retrieved his gigantic ash spear. Facing him was Memnon, backed by a large force of Aethiopes.

‘Stay out of this,’ Achilles warned as Odysseus and Eperitus ran to join him.

The Ithacans moved forward and lifted Ajax to his feet, while Achilles kept his eyes firmly on the Aethiope king. Memnon made no move to prevent Ajax being taken away; though he regretted not being able to claim the armour of such a fierce and powerful warrior, the breastplate, helmet and shield of the man who had come to aid him would provide a much more worthwhile trophy.

‘There was nothing I could do against him,’ Ajax admitted despairingly. ‘He was too quick for me.’

‘But you survived,’ Odysseus consoled him, observing the many new wounds that crossed the giant warrior’s body. ‘From what I’ve heard of Memnon, there are no others who can boast such a thing.’

Ajax smiled weakly, but the greatest sign of his tiredness was that he was prepared to forgo his pride and lean his weight against Odysseus. Eperitus glanced over his shoulder at the main battle, where the Greek infantry under Menelaus, Diomedes and Idomeneus had broken the stranglehold on their countrymen and were now forcing the Trojans and Aethiopes backwards with great slaughter. Then he turned back to look at the figure of Memnon, prowling from left to right and back again like a trapped lion. Achilles stepped forward.

‘I am Achilles, son of Peleus and the goddess Thetis. I slew Hector, and I will slay you, Memnon, son of Tithonus.’

‘You claim a goddess for a mother,’ Memnon replied in Greek, ‘but you don’t mention that my own mother is also a goddess – Eos, the Dawn, who brings the new day to the world. I’ve heard of you, Achilles, but I don’t fear you. Rather, it’s you who should fear me!’

With terrifying speed, he lifted his spear above his shoulder and hurled it at Achilles. Achilles ducked down behind his shield, which took the full force of the attack and snapped the spear at the point where the socket joined the shaft. He replied in kind, a deadly throw that would have passed straight through Memnon’s armoured chest and spirited his ghost away to the Chambers of Decay, were it not for the speed with which the spindly warrior twisted aside from the missile’s aim. The next moment the two men were drawing their swords and running at each other, their blades clashing in mid-air and their shields meeting with a heavy thud. Achilles pushed his opponent away and lunged again with his sword point, piercing the oiled leather of Memnon’s shield but failing to meet the flesh beyond. As he tugged the blade free, Memnon drove at Achilles’s flank. Achilles batted the attack aside with ease and smashed the razor-sharp edge of his sword down against the Aethiope’s shield. The supple leather shuddered but held, while only Achilles’s quick instincts saved him from the low, scything reply that would have taken off his lower leg. A second blow rebounded off Achilles’s helmet, leaving nothing more than a long dent and a ringing in the Greek’s head. Numbed, he stumbled backwards with his shield raised against the swift blows that followed. But Achilles’s battle impulses had not deserted him; anchoring himself with a backward thrust of his right leg, he parried two more blows before ducking low and pushing the point of his sword beneath the edge of Memnon’s crescent shield. Memnon leapt back, but not before the blade opened his inner thigh and released a gush of dark blood that spattered over the ground below. He wobbled a little, as much with surprise as pain, but Achilles allowed him no time to recover. As Memnon raised his shield, he rained a series of savage blows down upon it that crumpled the wicker frame and sent the black warrior staggering backwards. Then the wounded muscle in his leg gave way and he fell to one knee, raising his weapon instinctively over his head to meet the next attack. But Achilles brought his sword down at an angle, severing Memnon’s hand just below the wrist and sending his blade – with his hand still clutching the hilt – spinning through the air.

The handsome black face that had earlier been filled with arrogant pride and self-assurance now stared up at Achilles with disbelief. The expression remained etched on his features even as Achilles sliced off his head and sent it rolling towards the feet of his shocked men, who gazed down at it in horror.

Achilles fell to one knee beside the headless torso and, while the warm blood was still jetting from the open neck, began to strip off the silver cuirass and the ornate, leather and gold scabbard that hung from a baldric about the chest. Odysseus and Eperitus instinctively moved forward to protect the Phthian prince as he claimed his trophies, each of them eyeing the Aethiope line with unease, aware that they would be outnumbered ten to one as soon as the enemy spearmen shook off their stupor and chose to attack. But as Eperitus clutched his spear and stared over the rim of his shield, a man left the opposing ranks and placed a foot on the decapitated head, rolling it slightly so that the dead eyes stared back up at him. That the man was an Aethiope chieftain was evident from his silver helmet with its long white plume and the gleam of the decorative bronze breastplate beneath his rich black robe. He held a long sword in his hand, which he slowly sheathed before taking hold of the ram’s horn that hung at his hip and raising it to his mouth. He blew a long, clear note that rose into the air like a wailing lament. Even the discordant clash of weapons from the main battle faded beneath it as Aethiope, Trojan and Greek alike heard the call and looked for its source. Then, suddenly, the black spearmen let out a cry of despair and began to pull away, turning their backs on battle as they ran towards the chieftain with the ram’s horn.

Chapter Forty-Two

APOLLO’S REVENGE

Achilles dumped Memnon’s armour on to the ground and joined the others as they turned to face the swarm of approaching Aethiopes. But the southerners were not interested in fighting any more; their leader was dead and with him their brief allegiance to Troy. They were not Priam’s vassals, like the Dardanians, the Zeleians or the Cilicians, but had been persuaded to fight by ancient friendships and promises of Trojan gold. These no longer mattered, and so they swept around the small knot of Greeks like a stampede of wild horses avoiding an outcrop of rock, following in the wake of their countrymen who were already in retreat across the plain.

With their left flank now gone, the Trojans broke off the fighting and began to fall back. Menelaus, Idomeneus and Ajax – his pride getting the better of his exhaustion – led their armies in pursuit, while Diomedes and Odysseus prepared their men to go after the Aethiopes.

‘Let the cavalry hunt them down,’ Achilles said. ‘I came here to take the city. The moment the Scaean Gate opens for the Trojan survivors, we’re going to follow them in.’

He turned to the lines of spearmen and raised his sword in the air.

‘Listen to me! You men fought hard and suffered while I let my pride keep me in my hut. But since my return I’ve killed Hector, Penthesilea and now Memnon, and today I will lead you into Troy itself! Every man here who does his duty and fights well can take all the women and gold he can lay his hands on – and if Agamemnon or Menelaus tries to stop you then they’ll have me to answer to. We’ve waited many years for this day to come; now’s the time to make names for ourselves that will linger on men’s lips long after our ghosts have gone down to Hades. To Troy!’

‘To Troy!’ they echoed, punching the air with their spear points.

Eperitus took the reins of Odysseus’s chariot while Eurybates and Arceisius joined the Ithacan ranks. As the many wounded began to trail back to the Greek camp – Nestor among them, still unconscious from his wounds and unaware that his son was dead – the rest of the army chased the Trojans back across the grassland. Their pursuit was slowed by the delaying tactics of the enemy cavalry, who wheeled and charged again and again to prevent the Greeks from coming to grips with the retreating infantry. But as the pursuit passed over the temple of Thymbrean Apollo and down the slopes beyond to the Scamander, the Trojan horsemen had no choice but to join the rest of the army as they forded the river. Suddenly Achilles, who had bided his time for this very moment, gave the order for every man to throw himself into the attack. With a great roar, the Greeks splashed through the shallow water and fell upon the Trojans. The ringing of bronze and the screams of injured men mingled with the gentle babbling of the water and the call of the gulls overhead; all around, men fell by the score and fed long streamers of blood into the fast current. The Trojan resistance was ferocious but short-lived. Dispirited, outnumbered and outfought, their line wavered and broke.

‘Follow them!’ Odysseus shouted, pointing across the sea of helmeted heads to where Paris and Deiphobus were turning their chariot about and driving back to the Scaean Gate.

Eperitus flicked the reins across the backs of the horses and sent them springing forward. The heavy wheels bounced across rocks and the softer bodies of dead men beneath the water, before biting into the mud of the far bank and driving up on to the sun-baked plain. All around them Trojans were running in headlong panic, no longer concerned with fighting but only with reaching the safety of the city walls. Some fell beneath the speeding chariot, while others were caught by the pursuing Greeks and cut down without mercy. Then Paris turned and saw Eperitus and Odysseus gaining on him. With a quick word to his brother, who gave a shout and drove the tired horses even harder, Paris fitted an arrow to his bow and took aim. Odysseus quickly threw up his shield, catching the bronze-tipped shaft in the upper rim. Paris fitted another arrow and Eperitus wrenched the reins to the left, running down a group of Trojan spearmen as the second shaft flew past his right ear.

‘Get after them!’ Odysseus hollered, watching in angry dismay as Paris and Deiphobus escaped towards the Scaean Gate.

Eperitus steered the chariot back round to the right, just as a series of shrill horn calls announced the opening of the Scaean Gate. In the same moment he heard Achilles’s loud voice booming over the din of battle.

The gates are opening! To the gates! To the gates!’

He swept past them in his chariot, his immortal horses riding down any man in his way as he dashed headlong towards the yawning gap opening up in the Trojan walls. He drove forward with such speed that, for a moment, Eperitus thought he would reach the gates and take them single-handedly, overturning all the prophecies of doom, and with one act of courage and shining skill eclipse the feats of every warrior who had lived before him, even Heracles himself. Men fled as he bore down on them, or leapt aside and threw their arms over their heads in fear. But as Paris and Deiphobus disappeared through the gate a new series of horn calls sounded from the walls above. They were followed by loud cheering as hundreds of heavily armed men came rushing out to meet the Greeks.

Paris jumped down from the back of the chariot, followed by Deiphobus. All around them the streets were packed with soldiers and civilians, mingling chaotically as the panic of war took hold of the city once more. In one direction, massed companies of fresh troops marched out to meet the encroaching enemy, while in the other the survivors of the battle were trickling in through the gate to slump exhausted against the cyclopean walls, there to have their wounds treated by the flocks of anxious-looking women who were waiting for them. Again, Achilles had helped the Greeks turn defeat into victory and Paris felt his frustration turning to anger.

‘Apheidas!’ Paris called, seeing the tall captain leading the reserves. ‘Apheidas, keep the Greek infantry away from the gates – the archers on the walls will help – but let Achilles push in closer. He’ll not wait for the rest and I want him to be separated from them.’

Apheidas frowned down at the prince.

‘That’s too risky, my lord. If he reaches the gates it could mean the fall of Troy.’

‘Apheidas is right, Brother,’ Deiphobus agreed. ‘Let’s just get as many men as we can back inside the walls before—’

‘No!’ Paris snapped. ‘Achilles killed Hector and I’m going to avenge his death with my own hands now. If I fail and Troy falls, what of it? She’ll succumb sooner or later anyway, if Achilles isn’t killed.’

Apheidas’s gaze remained on Paris for a short while, then without a word he turned and rejoined the stream of spearmen flooding out of the gates, the hooves of his horse echoing loudly between the high walls. As he went, Paris selected a particular arrow from the leather quiver at his hip and turned its long, black shaft between his fingers. The tip had been smeared with a dark grey paste that had dried to a textured hardness. What was in the paste Paris did not know; but when he had requested the arrow from Penthesilea – having heard of the deadliness of Amazon barbs – she boasted it would kill any man, woman or beast, however great, if it so much as pierced their flesh. And there was only one man he intended to use the arrow on.

He ran up a flight of steps to the top of the walls, followed closely by Deiphobus. The battlements were filled with archers, pouring a deadly fire into the horde of Greeks beyond the line of the sacred oak tree, where the Trojans were barely managing to keep their onslaught at bay. Paris shouldered his way between them and, fitting the arrow to his bow, peered down into the morass of struggling men below.

The sound of the battle washed over him like a strong wind and for a while he could barely identify any individual among the closely fought press. Then he noticed Apheidas directing more reserves towards the fight with the Greek infantry, while ordering others on his right to move back. And then, following the direction of Apheidas’s orders, Paris saw him – the hated figure of Achilles, now dismounted from his chariot and fighting in the shadow of the walls. He was alone in the midst of a crowd of Trojans, who refused to attack or retreat as they formed a circle about the most feared of all the Greeks.

Paris sneered with hatred as he fitted the well-made arrow to his bow.

‘Lord Apollo, hear my prayer. If you will make my aim straight – if you will aid me in killing Achilles this day – you shall have the fat and thigh bones of twenty calves before darkness falls.’

As the words left his lips he heard a rushing of wind coming, it seemed, from a great distance. He closed his left eye and took aim down the shaft of the arrow, letting the bronze tip wander this way and that until he found Achilles again, causing murderous havoc with his sword among the Trojan spearmen. His heart quickened in his chest and at the same time the firmness of his grip wavered, letting the point of the arrow drift alarmingly away from its target. He felt the sweat on his fingertips and knew his grip on the base of the arrow was beginning to slip. Unless he regained command of himself the shot would be wasted. And then the wind grew louder and a moment later he felt it fanning his hair and cloak as a great shadow fell over him.

The noise of battle raged about Odysseus and Eperitus. Having seen Achilles leap down from his chariot and plunge into the thick of battle, they had followed the prince’s example and rushed in after him on foot, only to be held back by the fleeing Trojans as they turned and fought, heartened by the arrival of reinforcements from the gate and supporting fire from the archers on the battlements. The Greek infantry caught up and charged into the hastily formed Trojan line, but were greeted by a hail of arrows that stopped them as effectively as if they had run into a stone wall. They charged again and the struggle that followed was as frenzied and confused as any battle Eperitus had ever known. The Trojans fought with a fury Eperitus had rarely seen before, and which was only matched by the determination of the Greeks to follow Achilles through the Scaean Gate and into the streets of Troy.

Eperitus pushed the head of his spear into a Trojan’s chest, only for another to leap into the gap and swing at him with a double-headed axe. Eperitus met the shivering blow with the boss of his shield, before despatching his attacker with a rapid thrust of his spear as he pulled back his axe for a second time. Stepping over his body, he was met by a young lad armed with nothing more than a crude leather shield and a dagger.

‘So this is the level Troy has been lowered to,’ he said, staring at his enemy. ‘Sending boys on to the battlefield with nothing more than knives.’

There was no fear on the lad’s face, only angry determination as he rushed at Eperitus with his blade held before him. Almost without thinking, Eperitus reached across and grabbed the boy’s wrist, twisting his arm aside until, with a shout of pain, he dropped the dagger into the trampled grass. Eperitus kicked the weapon away just as Odysseus appeared at his side. Eurybates, Polites and Antiphus were with him.

‘Come on,’ the king shouted over the din of battle. ‘We’ve got to reach Achilles before the Trojans overpower him and drag his body into the city walls.’

He plunged into the press of Trojans, followed by the others.

‘Go home to your mother,’ Eperitus said, releasing the lad’s wrist.

He shoved him forcefully back towards his comrades, then followed the giant form of Polites into the fray. The Ithacans were cutting their way man by man through the swarming Trojans, and as their enemies were slowly pushed back, Eperitus caught a glimpse of Achilles ahead of them, fighting alone against a press of spearmen. Any other man would have fallen beneath such numbers. And yet no other man possessed Achilles’s all-consuming lust for glory, a lust that could only be satisfied by taking the gates of Troy and denying the doom his own mother had laid on his shoulders. But his savage fury was met with equal determination on the part of the Trojans, who were prepared to sacrifice everything in the defence of their homes and families, even to the point of sending boys into battle. Watching them throw themselves at the unstoppable Achilles, Eperitus realized that such men could never be defeated by the Greeks. They had a cause worth dying for, whereas Agamemnon’s army had forgotten why it had come to Ilium in the first place. Its leaders cared for nothing more than their own personal quests for glory, and pride alone would never give them victory.

Then Eperitus sensed a shadow fall across the battle. Others felt it too and looked up, only to see clear blue skies overhead. But as Eperitus lifted his gaze to the crowded battlements, he thought he saw a giant presence warping the air above the archers there, distorting the emptiness over their heads so that it seemed to shimmer like the heat haze on a distant horizon. No physical form was visible, but Eperitus knew a god was standing on the walls of Troy and casting its shadow over the fighting below. Then his eyes fell on Paris, who was leaning over the parapet with his bow pulled back, and suddenly Eperitus could see the shadowy outline of a tall figure standing over him, moving back its right hand as the Trojan prince drew the bow, and bending its head just as Paris bent his own head to take aim along the line of the arrow. Then the bowstring sang out and the missile struck its target.

Achilles cried out in pain. It was a sound Eperitus had never heard from Achilles before, nor had he ever expected to: high and clear and filled with extraordinary anguish, then slipping into despair as the great warrior knew his end had finally come, just as his beloved mother had warned him it would. He staggered, clutching at the long black arrow that had buried itself in his right heel, then fell.

As he disappeared among the circle of his enemies the clash of weapons and the shouts of men drained away, every Trojan and Greek sensing that something strange and terrible had happened. Then the shadow departed from the battlefield and the heaviness lifted from men’s hearts. Paris leaned over the wall and shook his fist.

‘That’s for Hector! And just as you mistreated his corpse, so will I mistreat yours. Bring the body to me!’

‘No!’ Odysseus exclaimed, running towards the place where Achilles had fallen.

The battle erupted back into life. Eperitus dashed after Odysseus, who was cutting down any man who dared stand in his way; they were followed by Polites, Eurybates, Antiphus and a handful of Ithacans. Within moments they had driven back the Trojans surrounding Achilles and, while the others fought to hold them off, Odysseus and Eperitus knelt beside the fallen prince.

Odysseus removed Achilles’s helmet and took his head in his lap, brushing the long blond hair from his face. As his fingers stroked across his forehead, Achilles’s eyes flickered open and looked up at the Ithacan king.

‘Odysseus!’ he whispered, trying to smile despite the pain of approaching death. ‘Odysseus, my friend, it seems Calchas was right after all. And yet it’s better this way, I can see that now. The honour of killing Hector was given to my hand, though in the end it was a victory for hatred and revenge rather than for Achilles the man; but the glory of taking Troy must belong to another. To you, I think. And now I’m going down to Hades, where a man’s soul knows only misery.’

‘But your name will remain here on earth,’ Odysseus said. ‘Here among the world of the living.’

Achilles gripped Odysseus’s arms with the last of his strength, and suddenly there was doubt in his eyes. Doubt, at the last, that he had achieved immortality.

‘Can you be sure of that?’ he gasped.

‘Yes,’ Odysseus reassured him. ‘Yes, Achilles, you’ve earned that much at least.’

‘But . . .’ Achilles’s back arched with a stab of pain, forcing Odysseus to hold him tight until the convulsion ebbed away again. ‘But are you the only one who has come to save my body from the Trojans?’

As he spoke, a thunderous shout of anger rose above the cacophony of battle. Odysseus and Eperitus looked over their shoulders to see the titanic form of Ajax striding towards them from the Greek lines. Forgetting his wounds and exhaustion in his fury, he brushed aside Trojans as if they were nothing more than children.

Unaware of Ajax’s approach, Achilles reached up and clutched at Odysseus’s shoulder, his fingers tightening with pain and his eyes suddenly wide with fear.

‘He’s coming, Odysseus! Hermes is coming for my soul! Lean closer, quickly; let my final words in life be to you, my friend.’

Odysseus bent down and placed his ear to Achilles’s lips, which moved briefly and were still. An instant later Ajax burst in among the encircled Ithacans, his great shield bristling with arrows and his sword running with fresh gore as he stared down at the body of his cousin.

‘He’s dead,’ Odysseus announced, passing his fingers over Achilles’s eyelids and closing them for ever.

Ajax, his dirt-stained cheeks wet with tears, bent low and lifted the fallen warrior over his shoulder.

‘Come, Odysseus, we must take him back to the ships. I can carry his body, but I can’t easily fight Trojans at the same time. You and Eperitus must protect me.’

He turned and ran back towards the Greek line, while Odysseus and Eperitus launched themselves at the wall of Trojans.

Chapter Forty-Three

THETIS

Eperitus lay on his side, supporting his head on his fist as he watched the shadows moving across the walls of his hut. Astynome was beside him, her breathing barely audible as she slept. He looked down at her chest as it gently rose and fell; the skin was orange in the firelight and every dimple and line was carefully picked out by the soft, wavering glow. Her face was turned away from him and he spent a few moments admiring her profile – the straight line of her jaw, the small nose and the closed eyes with their long, black lashes. A few strands of dark hair were stuck to the thin film of sweat on her forehead, while the rest of it lay tousled across the rolled-up furs that pillowed her head. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair back behind her ear, half hoping she would wake, but she did not.

It was now seventeen days since Paris had shot Achilles before the Scaean Gate, his hand guided by Apollo. After the battle there were many who claimed to have seen the god standing atop the battlements. None had, of course, but it was beyond doubt that the Olympian archer had finally avenged the death of his son, Tenes, whom Achilles had killed ten years before in the first battle of the war. Tomorrow the period of mourning set by Agamemnon would be over and the great warrior’s body burnt. And it was about time, Eperitus thought. Unlike the divine protection that had preserved and restored Hector’s body during the days of abuse by Achilles, the Phthian prince’s own corpse had been afforded no such blessing. Despite every effort of the Greeks, the process of corruption was well advanced and the white sheet that covered the body could not disguise its foul stench. Only the faithful Myrmidons who guarded their prince could endure the smell, while the rest of the army said the rapid decay had been sent by the gods in revenge for Achilles’s impious treatment of Hector.

Eperitus did not agree with them. Neither did Odysseus. Despite his excesses, Achilles was too great a warrior to earn the loathing of the Olympians. Few men could boast an immortal mother or a full set of divinely made armour, and none could claim to have killed as many famed opponents as Achilles had. Nor would the Trojans have fought with such savagery to claim the body of any other man. With Paris urging them on, they had pursued the Greeks back across the fords of the Scamander and up the slopes beyond it to the plain above. Warriors had died in their hundreds on both sides, giving their lives for possession of a single corpse, devoid of its precious spirit. While Ajax had carried Achilles’s lifeless body across his massive shoulders – oblivious to the deadly hail of arrows and the shouts of the victorious Trojans – Odysseus and Eperitus had fought like trapped lions to protect his retreat, assisted by the strength and size of Polites, the bow of Antiphus and the spear of Eurybates. Finally, as Paris prepared his troops for another attack, Zeus himself intervened in the shape of a sudden storm, darkening the skies with clouds and calling on the winds to drive sheets of rain into the faces of the Trojans as the Greeks slipped away.

Astynome had come to his tent that same night, desperate to know that he had survived. She had treated his wounds then made love to him – tenderly, so as not to reopen his many cuts, but with a strong passion driven by relief at being in his arms again. The fierceness of the fighting and the inescapable closeness of death had given their relationship an urgency that neither had experienced in love before, making Eperitus hate the times when she had to leave him and return to her master in Troy. But until the war was over he knew this was how they would have to live – furtive meetings at night, spending their short time together in his bed until dawn, when she would seek out her friends the farmer and his son, who would take her back to the one place Eperitus could not join her. Not, that was, unless he gave in to her pleading and accepted his father’s offer of a meeting to discuss peace – an offer she had reminded him of on the evening after Achilles’s death and again tonight, as she lay in his arms after making love. And again he had refused.

‘But there’s no other way to end this war,’ she had protested, slapping his chest in frustration and looking even more beautiful in her anger. ‘Troy can never be victorious, not with the Amazon queen dead and what’s left of the Aethiope army in full retreat back south. But neither can the cursed Greeks, now Paris has killed Achilles. It’s a stalemate. Surely if your father can bring about peace then you have a duty to listen to him – a duty to Odysseus, to me, and even to yourself.’

‘I don’t trust Apheidas, for one thing,’ he had replied, ‘and I will not allow him to think I’ve forgiven the things he did, or that my shame at being his son is in any way reduced. The answer’s no, Astynome, now and every other time you ask me.’

‘Then I will ask you no more,’ she had said, brushing the tears from her eyes as she lay down next to him.

But as he listened to her rapid breathing gradually slow down until sleep overtook her, he knew that she was right. There was a growing sense of frustration among the ordinary Greek soldiers, bordering on open rebellion as they began to think that the war would never end and they would not see their homes and families ever again. Achilles’s very presence was worth an army in itself, and now that he had gone down to the halls of Hades, the camp seemed empty and subdued. Whatever men may have thought about the ruthless Phthian and his excessive pride, none would deny that he had been the fighting soul of the army. And now that he was dead the army’s hope had died with him. Despairing soldiers were daring to defy their captains, while some even deserted, preferring to brave the hostile lands about them in a hope of finding a way home than spend any more time under the doomed command of Agamemnon. On one occasion an angry mob of Cretans caught Calchas sneaking away from Agamemnon’s tent and threatened to kill him unless he confessed he had lied about the war ending in the tenth year. The priest had refused and only the arrival of Agamemnon’s own bodyguards saved his life. The King of Men had one of the Cretans strung up as an example to the rest of the camp and a resentful peace had followed.

But it was more than the despair of the Greeks that convinced Eperitus the war would not be won by either side. As he lay staring into the twitching shadows cast by the fire, he could not help but think of the boy soldier he had faced in the battle before the Scaean Gate. Any city that was prepared to arm children with daggers and throw them against seasoned warriors would not give in until every man who could hold a weapon was dead. And as Astynome never ceased to remind him, all the Trojans needed to do was wait behind their god-built walls until the Greeks found a way to break them down, or gave up and sailed home.

He thought of the boy again and was consoled by the knowledge that he had not killed him. Achilles would not have thought twice about hewing that young head from its shoulders in his all-consuming rampage towards glory – the same glory that Eperitus had once hankered after with all his heart. But no more. All he wanted now was to take Astynome back with him to Ithaca and let his name be preserved by their children rather than his deeds on the battlefield. He kissed her on the shoulder and lay down to sleep.

Odysseus was dreaming of Ithaca. He was in the bed he had made for Penelope and himself, with its four thick posts that rose from floor to ceiling and which were inlaid with patterns of gold, silver and ivory. One of the posts was the bole of an old olive tree that had been there before he had extended the palace, and which he had played in as a child. Staring up at the smooth ceiling, he could see the stars that had been painted there, the constellations positioned just as they had been in the month when the bedroom had been finished, forever a spring evening. And beside him he could feel the presence of his wife.

He turned to look at her. She was naked beneath the furs and in his dream he could feel the warmth emanating from her body. But her handsome features were sad and regretful.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I tried to keep the thieves from your house, Odysseus, but you were gone too long. Now Eupeithes’s son is king in your place.’

‘Antinous?’ Odysseus exclaimed, propping himself up on one elbow.

‘Yes, Antinous,’ Penelope had replied, rolling over so that her back was turned to him. ‘My new husband.’

Odysseus reached out to touch her and woke, his arm half-stretched out from beneath his furs. He pulled it back and took a deep breath, unsettled but relieved to realize it was only a dream. He stroked his beard and closed his eyes, trying to recall Penelope’s face. But she was gone.

And then his senses told him he was not alone in his hut.

He flung aside his furs and leapt from his bed, reaching for the sword that hung in its scabbard from the wall above.

‘That wouldn’t do you any good, if I had a mind to harm you.’

He turned to see Athena, sitting in his own chair by the hearth. She was dressed in her white chiton, her shield, helmet and spear absent, and her large eyes seemed unconscious of his nakedness as they stared at him. Odysseus blinked in surprise for a moment then knelt and bowed his head.

‘Am I still dreaming?’ he asked, looking up slightly.

‘No.’

‘Then things must be coming to a climax. This is the third time you’ve appeared to me in just a few weeks, Mistress.’

‘Come closer, Odysseus,’ she commanded, rising from the chair and reaching out to take his hand. Her touch was cool and smooth, not at all human, and there was a tender, almost pitying concern in her grey eyes. ‘Things are indeed coming to their end and you are likely to see more of me as this war reaches its conclusion. But – strange as it might seem to you – the plans of the gods cannot be fulfilled without human intervention.’

‘Is that what brings you here from Olympus?’

She reached out and stroked his red hair. ‘You haven’t forgotten what I said at the river?’

‘No, Mistress.’

‘Good, because the time is nigh. Tomorrow, Ajax will lay claim to Achilles’s armour. You must challenge him and stop him from winning it.’

Odysseus frowned and let his hand slip from hers.

‘When you spoke before, I thought you meant Ajax would seek the armour by treachery. But now Achilles is dead, Ajax has a blood right to his possessions. What right do I have to make a claim?’

‘Have you already forgotten Achilles’s last words?’

‘But Achilles thought I was the only one who had come to save him. And without Ajax’s great strength his body and armour would never have been saved from the Trojans at all.’

‘And did you not fight off the Trojans while he carried his cousin’s corpse?’ Athena said, her face growing sterner at Odys-seus’s protests.

Odysseus looked down at the flames.

‘I did, and I don’t deny part of me wants the armour, my lady. Ever since I laid eyes on it I felt the pull of its enchantment. And I haven’t forgotten how Palamedes called me a poor king of a poor country, with nothing to speak of my greatness.’

‘The armour would give you that,’ Athena said, softly once more.

‘But it’s not right. The armour should go to Ajax, not me. His pride won’t stand it going to someone else.’

‘Do you think we immortals care what you think is right or wrong, Odysseus?’ Athena warned him, angrily. ‘Ajax will be punished for his constant blasphemies and unless you want yourself and your family to face our fury you will do as we command – and you will do it alone, without telling Eperitus or anyone else. Claim the armour and make it your own, by whatever means you can!’

As she spoke, the hearth blazed up, forcing Odysseus to shield himself from the heat. But a moment later the flames died back down, and as Odysseus took his hand from his face the goddess’s harsh expression had softened again.

‘There’s another thing you should know. If Ajax takes the armour he will keep it to himself. But Zeus has decreed it should go to another, one even more worthy of it than Ajax. Unless that man joins the army and takes Achilles’s place, Troy won’t fall. And unless Troy falls, you will never see Ithaca, or Penelope, or Telemachus again. Human intervention, Odysseus.’

‘But who is this man you speak of?’

Athena shook her head, her form becoming insubstantial. Like smoke in a breeze, she drifted into nothing before Odysseus’s eyes.

That will be revealed in its own time,’ her fading voice replied. ‘But if you want to go home, my dear Odysseus, win the armour.’

The king of Ithaca wetted his finger and held it up in the air. It was all for show, of course: the wind always blew from the northwest and he could tell its direction from the way it fanned the sweat on his naked body, not to mention the fact that the pall of smoke from Achilles’s funeral pyre was trailing away towards the south-east. But the funeral games were as much a spectacle in respect of the dead as they were a competition for rich prizes and the honour they carried with them, so Odysseus went through all the required motions before the eyes of the thousands of soldiers who were crowded along the edge of the beach.

He stretched his arms behind his back, interlacing his fingers and locking his elbows so that the muscles of his back and arms tensed. After a few moments he let his arms fall to his sides and began to roll his shoulders in forward circles, loosening the muscles there while at the same time tipping his head back and closing his eyes against the bright midday sun. Finally, he placed his fists on his hips and, keeping his back straight, bent his knees several times in succession as the crowd clapped or jeered, depending on which of the competitors they supported.

His limbering-up exercises complete, he turned and raised his hand to the line of benches where the Greek leaders sat in expectation, backed by crowds of noisy soldiers. In the centre were Menelaus, Agamemnon and Nestor. Menelaus was leaning forward and chewing on a finger, while Nestor seemed distant and tired, his wise head greyer and even more bent with age since the death of Antilochus. Between them, reclining in his bulky, fur-draped throne, the King of Men’s blue eyes scrutinized Odysseus with cold detachment. Then he gave a curt nod and Odysseus turned to his left.

A few paces from where he stood was a mound of earth that formed a dark circle on the white sand. The palm prints of the men who had patted it into shape were still visible, though the smooth surface had since been broken by the footmarks of the two previous contestants, Sthenelaus and Podarces. Beyond the mound was a long stretch of clear beach marked off by the mass of onlookers to the right and the line of galleys and the sea to the left. At the far end was the barrow Achilles had erected for Patroclus, with the smoking remains of Achilles’s own funeral pyre tumbled and blackened before it. A large altar had been set up a little to the left, where the many animals that had been sacrificed to Achilles’s memory had bathed it red with their gore and darkened the sand in a large circle around it.

But Odysseus gave no mind to these remnants of the morning’s funeral. He narrowed his eyes in determination and stepped up to the mound. Eperitus, who had been standing a few paces behind, followed and handed him something dull and heavy. Odysseus took the discus in his right hand and looked down at it: a lump of cast iron, about the size of a small plate but heavy enough to strain at the hard muscles of his forearm and bicep. Nodding at Eperitus, who returned to where he had been waiting, Odysseus tipped the discus back against the heel of his thumb and gripped its lower edge with the ends of his fingers, before swinging his body round so that his weight shifted on to his right leg. Leaning forward and placing his left hand on his right knee, he began to swing the discus while using the toes of his free foot for balance. A moment later he fixed his stern gaze on the distant barrow, raised the discus as high as he could over his right shoulder, then, with a great shout, swung his body round and let go. The discus arced high and long through the air, silencing the onlookers as it spun over the stretch of naked beach, its flight seemingly interminable as it continued to rise like a bird on the wing, only reaching its zenith as it passed over the marks of Podarces and Sthenelaus before smacking the sand and bouncing on into the remains of the funeral pyre, where its long course ended in a puff of ash.

The incredulous pause that followed was quickly broken by a long roar of approval from the crowd of spectators. Even the men who had jeered him before now joined in the celebration as Odysseus raised his arms to the crowd, his bearded face broken by his beaming smile. He turned and met Eperitus’s exultant embrace, and the two men were soon surrounded by a crowd of Ithacans, cheering and shouting their king’s name.

‘Stand aside!’ ordered a booming voice. ‘Or have you forgotten that I also put my name forward for this competition? The prize is not yours yet, Odysseus.’

Silence fell and every eye turned to see Great Ajax standing ankle-deep in the soft sand. He had stripped naked and was holding a large discus in his right hand. It was twice the normal size and must have been four times as heavy, but Ajax carried it with ease in his fingertips. On either side of him were Teucer and Little Ajax. The former twitched nervously as he hid in his half-brother’s shadow, while the latter scowled with disdain, the snake about his shoulders hissing and flicking its forked tongue at the Ithacan king.

‘Of course,’ Odysseus answered, stepping down from the mound.

‘That was a good throw for a short man,’ Ajax said, squinting as he looked to where Odysseus’s discus had landed. ‘Perhaps Athena lent you her strength, as usual. But I will beat it, and without the help of any god!’

He spat on the sand and assumed the same position Odysseus had adopted, quickly swinging the discus back and forth until he felt the momentum reach its peak. Then he opened his fingers and let it go, emptying his lungs in a deafening bellow as the heavy weight went spinning high into the air. Odysseus shielded his eyes with the flat of his hand and watched it soar over the marks of the first two casts before dipping in a straight line towards Patroclus’s barrow. He knew the instant it had left Ajax’s hand that it would surpass his own throw, but it was with dismay that he saw it sail clean over the top of the tall mound to bury itself in the sand beyond.

Ajax ignored the roar that erupted from the ranks of the Greeks, choosing instead to turn and look triumphantly at Odysseus. Agamemnon stood and raised his sceptre in both hands over his head, keeping it there until silence had fallen.

‘I announce Ajax the winner,’ he called in a clear voice. ‘Bring the prize.’

A group of male slaves appeared from a nearby tent, carrying three copper tripods and matching cauldrons between them. Agamemnon pointed at Ajax and the men struggled over the soft sand towards him, only for the giant warrior to give his prize a cursory glance and send the slaves in the direction of his own tents at the far end of the beach.

As if to reinforce Odysseus’s humiliation, the King of Men now beckoned him forward to receive the runner-up’s prize – a donkey’s foal that brayed loudly as it was dragged from the tent. But before the attendant slave could hand him the rope that was tied around its neck, a commotion broke out among the crowd of soldiers. Men were pointing towards the sea and crying out in a mixture of disbelief and terror. The kings and princes, too, rose from their benches and stared in shocked awe at where the breakers of the Aegean were crashing upon the beach.

Odysseus turned and ran back down to where Eperitus and Ajax were looking in silence at the sea.

‘What’s happening to the water?’ Ajax asked, looking confused.

Odysseus ignored him and took the cloak Eperitus was holding out to him. By now a stretch of sea beyond the black hulls of the galleys was bubbling and smoking, as if a great fire had been lit beneath the waves and the waters were boiling in agony. Then shapes began to rise up from the turbulence, liquid in form and translucent at first, but quickly changing into flesh as they caught the sunlight. To the amazement of the thousands of onlookers – and no less so to Odysseus and Eperitus, who had seen it before – the first shape took the form of a young woman as she walked up out of the sea, a golden urn held in her hands. A dozen more sea nymphs followed in her wake, all of them young, beautiful and naked, finally halting on the beach halfway between the edge of the water and the throne of Agamemnon.

‘I am Thetis, mother of Achilles,’ the first announced. She spoke slowly, the grief in her immortal eyes clear for all to see. ‘I have brought this urn for my son’s ashes, a gift for him in death from the gods who forsook him in life.’

Overcoming his initial shock, Agamemnon snapped his fingers and waved Talthybius forward. The herald approached slowly and fearfully at first, until – remembering the eyes of the Greek army were upon him and finding his courage – he reached out and took the urn from the goddess’s hands. As he retreated in the direction of the funeral pyre, Agamemnon rose from his throne, took a few steps towards Thetis, then fell to his knees before her and bowed his head. With a great rustling like the wind sweeping across the canopy of a forest, the rest of the army followed his example.

‘My lady, accept our condolences for the loss of your son, whose like will never be seen on this earth again. May we also offer you our gratitude for his services to the army and invite you to join us in a feast honouring you and the glorious Achilles?’

‘Your words are tipped with honey, oh King of Men, but in your heart there is no grief for my son’s passing. He has been a thorn in your side ever since the fleet left Aulis: always the most difficult to control, the hardest to please and the most terrible to cross. He was your best fighter, yet you and many others are relieved he is dead. Do you deny this?’

Agamemnon kept his eyes fixed on Thetis’s white feet and said nothing.

‘I do not condemn you, King Agamemnon, for my son was always headstrong and proud. Much though his father loved him, even Peleus was relieved when he left for this war of yours. Achilles was too much of a man to be content in peacetime and only a little less at ease in war. And yet you are a fool if you think your internal problems ended with his death. He may have passed down to the realms of the dead, but he leaves a legacy of strife behind him. Behold, Greeks, the armour of Achilles!’

Odysseus and Eperitus, along with every other man in the army, raised their heads to see that the armour was now at Thetis’s side. The heavy cuirass that was the image of Achilles’s muscle-bound torso stood at the centre, with the golden helmet and its flowing, blood-red plume planted in the sand before it; the ornately patterned greaves – with the shaped cup on the right greave that had failed to prevent the designs of another god penetrating Achilles’s heel – lay crossed over each other to the right of the helmet; while leaning against the left side of the breastplate was the broad shield with its concentric, intricately carved circles depicting scenes of war and peace.

‘The Olympians have sent me here,’ Thetis continued, ‘to award this armour to the bravest of the Greeks who fought before the Scaean Gate, in the battle where my son was slain. But you must decide between yourselves who was the most courageous. If any man here thinks he showed the greatest valour – or believes he is worthy to wear the armour of Achilles – then let him step forward to be judged by his peers under King Agamemnon!’

The challenge rolled out across the wide bay and settled on the hearts of every soldier present. For a moment, all those who had fought in the battle felt the temptation to state his claim. Even Eperitus found himself reflecting on his part in the retreat and the number of Trojans he had killed. Without him, Achilles’s body would never have been brought back to the ships; surely, a smooth voice whispered in his head, he had as much right to the prize as any other man. And with a sudden greed his eyes fell on the gleaming armour at Thetis’s side.

But his ardour cooled as quickly as it had gripped him. A more sobering voice had stilled his mind, telling him he would be a fool to think his part in the retreat had been greater than that of some others – and of two men in particular: Great Ajax, who had carried the heavy corpse back to the ships without any weapons to defend himself, despising all thoughts of his own danger in his desire to save his cousin’s body; and Odysseus, who had fought with a fury Eperitus had never seen in the king before, throwing the Trojans back again and again with no regard for their numbers. Some had been so afraid of him that they had abandoned their arms in fear and pleaded to be spared his wrath.

The same conclusion dawned on Diomedes, Menelaus, Little Ajax and a host of others, and they lowered their eyes so that the sight of the splendid armour would not tempt them to make fools of themselves. Of all the great warriors who had taken part in the fighting, only two now rose to their feet and walked towards Thetis. Odysseus and Ajax had accepted the challenge.

Chapter Forty-Four

THE DEBATE

Thetis left her son’s armour on the beach and returned to the sea. Her nymphs followed, singing a mournful dirge as the waves reabsorbed their watery bodies. Their voices were so sweet and ethereal that the Greeks were held in thrall for a long time after they had gone, their hearts torn with renewed sadness for the great Achilles. It was Agamemnon who finally broke the spell, rising from his throne and ordering the benches of the council to be formed into a circle with his own seat at its head. The awarding of the armour would be decided by a debate between the two claimants, but first he insisted that Ajax and Odysseus return to their huts and prepare themselves.

Odysseus sighed, wishing Athena had not given the task to him. After she had departed his hut he had spent the remainder of the night pondering what he had to do, knowing there was no open and honest way to prove himself more worthy of Achilles’s armour than Ajax. That, of course, was exactly why the gods had chosen him: since the death of Palamedes, no one else in the army had the same instinct for trickery and cunning that would be needed for the job. But he was also concerned about how Eperitus would react. His captain’s clear-cut view on what was right and what was wrong would be sorely tested, and yet Odysseus knew he would have to rely on Eperitus’s witness if he was to win the debate – at least, not without resorting to baser methods. But the king had no choice in the matter, a fact that Athena had made very clear: carry out the will of the gods; intervene on their behalf, or suffer the war to continue without end, a punishment for the disobedience of mankind. He only wished she had not forbidden him to tell Eperitus.

‘Why in Athena’s name do you want Achilles’s armour?’

Odysseus turned to see Eperitus at his shoulder, looking angry and confused.

‘You heard what Achilles said to me,’ Odysseus replied, hating himself for the deceit he was about to carry out. ‘Besides, I earned it, bringing his body back to the camp. And do you remember how Palamedes called me a coward, saying I’d be a forgotten king without glory? What do you think he’d say if he saw me wearing the armour of Achilles, made by Hephaistos himself?’

Eperitus’s eyes widened in disbelief as the king spoke, though his growing anger was not without concern at the strange shift in his friend’s character.

‘Listen to yourself, Odysseus! Can this really be you speaking? You know the armour should go to Ajax, and as for what Achilles said—’

Odysseus held up a finger.

‘Enough, Eperitus. I’m going to my hut to prepare and I’m taking Omeros and Eurylochus with me. You are to stay here and keep a close eye on the armour – I don’t trust that oaf Ajax not to come and take it while I’m gone. But listen, old friend,’ he added, softening his tone and putting his hands on Eperitus’s shoulders. ‘I’m serious about winning this debate, and I want you to witness for me. Can I count on you?’

Eperitus’s eyes narrowed.

‘You know I’ll always serve your best interests,’ he answered.

When Odysseus returned it was to find Ajax already there, standing Titan-like before the ranks of seated warriors with Teucer and Little Ajax standing at his shoulders. His massive fists were balled up on his hips and he looked for every man on the beach as if the armour were already his. Odysseus entered the circle of benches where the Council of Kings was ready to sit in judgment, wearing a plain tunic and the faded purple cloak Penelope had given him at their parting on Ithaca ten years before. He had always scorned fine clothes and decorative armour in a debate, feeling they were the cheap tricks of lesser men, hoping to awe their audience with a show of wealth and power, rather than winning them over by the skill of their argument.

The two warriors stood almost shoulder to shoulder before the King of Men, who kept them waiting – along with the council and the rest of the army – while he spoke in low tones with Nestor and Menelaus. Ajax crossed his hands over the small of his back and looked at Odysseus from the corner of his eye.

‘What are you hoping to gain by this, Odysseus?’ he whispered. ‘If you wanted something from me, you know all you needed to do was ask. But challenging my claim—’

‘I have a right to the armour, too.’

‘Is it because I beat you in the discus throw? Or are you just trying to antagonize me? Because if you are, you’re succeeding. But if you drop your claim now I’ll think none the worse of you.’

Odysseus looked up at the towering form of Ajax, catching his fierce eye.

‘I don’t have that choice, Ajax. And if I lose your friendship over this, then I’m sorry.’

Ajax glared back at him, then began rocking on his heels, making his impatience obvious to Agamemnon as he fidgeted and blew through his teeth. That he was the greatest fighter in the whole Greek alliance could no longer be disputed since the death of Achilles, and if the King of Men’s decision was to be based on fighting prowess alone then the victory would doubtless be his. But Odysseus had two assets that Ajax had not – his shrewd intelligence and his voice. The eventual owner of Achilles’s armour would not be decided in battle, but by argument and counterargument. And as the bloated sun shimmered above the distant edge of the ocean, the contest was wide open.

Finally, the whispered discussion between the three kings ended and Agamemnon turned to Ajax and Odysseus. Sliding his left ankle up on to his right knee, he leaned back and placed a thoughtful finger to his lips.

‘Of all the men in this army,’ he began, ‘there are few I rely on for counsel and strength in battle as much as you two. But only one of you can win this debate and claim the armour of Achilles; the loser, I fear, will regard the other with jealousy and even animosity. For it is a glorious prize, the likes of which no man has been tempted with for many generations. So, for the sake of our greater goal – the defeat and sack of Troy – I ask you to relinquish your claims and forsake this divisive contest before it begins.’

‘I will not surrender my right to the armour,’ Ajax announced, glaring at the King of Men. ‘Achilles was my cousin. I was as close a kinsman to him as any here, and that alone would raise my claim above all others.’ He glanced sidelong at Odysseus, then, unclasping his hands from behind his back, stepped forward and punched a finger towards Agamemnon. ‘But I make no blood claim on his armour. I don’t need to. Thetis said it should be awarded to the most courageous of the Greeks who fought before the Scaean Gate, and that man is me!’

There was a rumble of approval from the seated ranks of the army, but Odysseus showed no sign of doubt or fear. Agamemnon sighed and leaned back in his gold-plated throne.

‘And what evidence do you have to back your statement?’ he asked in a calm voice.

‘What evidence?’ Ajax exclaimed. He turned and looked at the faces of the seated kings and leaders. ‘What evidence, he asks. Well, perhaps, my lord, you were too far back in the ranks to notice that I have been in the front line of every battle we have fought since arriving in this accursed land. I can’t even begin to count the Trojans I’ve killed, and if I listed the names of the noblemen who’ve fallen to my spear then we would be here until long after the moon has risen.

‘But I know you were there, my lord Agamemnon, when I fought Hector to a standstill on the slopes above the Scamander. As was Odysseus, who said nothing when Hector challenged us to offer up a champion. No, it was left to me on that occasion. And where were you when the Trojans breached the walls and attacked the ships, Odysseus? I didn’t see you when I was fighting them off from the prows of the galleys, because you were skulking in Agamemnon’s tent with a mere flesh wound! Am I wrong?’

Odysseus looked briefly down at his feet as he composed himself, then placed his hands carefully on his hips and shook his head.

‘You know you’re wrong, Ajax. We all do. I was neither skulking, nor was it just a flesh wound that kept me from the struggle. While you were fighting a losing battle, hoping that brawn alone could hold back the victorious Trojans, I was convincing Patroclus to put on Achilles’s armour and lead the Myrmidons into the attack. While your muscles were saving a single galley, my brains were saving the whole army.’

He spoke calmly, without anger or mockery, and in a tone that convinced every listener of the truth of what he was saying. There were nods and murmurs among the crowd of onlookers as men accepted his argument, only surprised they had not realized it before.

‘I’ve done my fair share of fighting, too,’ Odysseus continued. ‘I’ve been in as many battles as you have, Ajax, and more. Where were you when Achilles and I captured Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe, for instance?’ Ajax opened his mouth to protest, but Odysseus held up a finger to silence him. ‘Save your objections; I don’t deny you’ve killed more Trojans than I have and could probably recount each of their names one after another until the cock crows. But there’s much more to war than blind savagery, and not least for those of us who have the privilege of command. We must be in the forefront of every battle or risk losing the respect of our men, but we must also have an eye on the greater goals. And in that I surpass you, Ajax. What were you doing when the army was close to mutiny during the winter months? Well, while you practised your discus throwing with Achilles, I was suggesting the attacks on Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe to keep the army busy and to bring in some much-needed loot, not to mention cutting Troy’s supplies from the south. And I was the one who thought up a way to defeat the Amazons. Without me, Ajax, the best men in Greece – yourself included – would have been dead on the plains with poisoned arrows peppering their rotting corpses, while the rest of the army sailed back home in defeat.’

Ajax spat on the sand.

‘Words and tricks – is that all you have to boast of, Odysseus? When all’s said and done, a man’s courage and honour is determined by his performance in battle; courage is the measure by which Achilles’s armour will be awarded, and in that I surpass you! Was it intelligence and cunning that carried the body of Achilles out of the clutches of the Trojans and all the way back here, in spite of their countless spears and arrows? Of course not – it was the strength and bravery of Ajax, son of Telamon!’

His words were greeted by a rumble of approval from the army crowded about the circle of benches.

‘And was it my intelligence and cunning that covered your back as you carried Achilles?’ Odysseus replied, turning to look his opponent in the eye. ‘No, it was my courage and skill that saved you, Ajax. Without me you wouldn’t even have reached the fords of the Scamander. My bravery is a match for yours and you know it!’

‘By Ares’s sword!’ Ajax snapped. ‘If you hadn’t have been there, Odysseus, I would have fought the Trojans with one hand and dragged Achilles’s body back to the ships with the other.’

‘The armour should be given to Ajax!’ Little Ajax shouted, raising his arms in the air. ‘Odysseus is nothing but a clever fraud. Award the armour to Ajax!’

Suddenly knots of men stood and began to cheer and shout Ajax’s name. Odysseus recognized them as a mixture of Locrians and Ajax’s own men, who had been deliberately spread out among the army. But they were quickly joined by others and soon almost every man was on his feet and roaring approval for Ajax. At last the chanting died away as the heralds persuaded and cajoled the dense ranks to sit back down in the sand.

‘You’ve heard what Odysseus and I have to say, my lord,’ Ajax said, turning to Agamemnon with a triumphant smile. ‘And you’ve heard what the army thinks. Now it’s time to make your decision—’

‘Not quite,’ Odysseus interrupted. ‘There’s one other opinion that should be heard, an opinion more important than either mine, Ajax’s, or even that of the whole army.’

Agamemnon narrowed his eyes at Odysseus, then slowly scanned the circle of benches. Complete silence had fallen as the vast audience waited in expectation.

‘Whose?’ Agamemnon asked after no one else had stepped forward.

‘The opinion of Achilles himself.’

‘Achilles?’ exclaimed Ajax. ‘What nonsense is this? Can you conjure up the dead now, Odysseus?’

Odysseus took a step closer to Agamemnon.

‘When Achilles fell, Eperitus and I were the first to reach him. I took his head in my lap and tried to comfort him as the fear of death settled upon him. Then he clutched at me and asked that I hear his final words. I bent my ear to his mouth.’

The faces of the council were rapt in awe as Odysseus paused for effect, each of them clearly desperate to know what Achilles’s final words had been. Even Ajax was staring wide-eyed and dumbfounded as Odysseus brushed away a dramatic tear. Words and tricks, Ajax had sneered; but words and tricks were going to steal the armour of Achilles from his fingertips. The king of Ithaca looked up and scanned the faces of the waiting audience.

‘He pulled me near with the last of his strength and whispered these words: “To you, Odysseus, I bequeath my glorious armour, to be worn honourably as a token of my gratitude.” As Athena is my witness, I swear this was his last wish. But don’t take my word for it. Ask Eperitus.’

There was uproar. Men of every rank suddenly began talking at the same time, their exclamations of disbelief and shock growing increasingly louder as they shouted to be heard. And as more and more turned to face Eperitus, Odysseus looked at his friend and saw the doubt and internal debate reflected in his eyes.

‘Silence!’ Agamemnon bellowed, standing and raising his golden staff above his head. The babble of voices fell away. ‘This contest is not decided yet. If your claim is true, Odysseus, the armour of Achilles is yours. But first I must have confirmation from Eperitus.’

Ajax, who had been aghast and speechless up to that point, stepped forward.

‘No! Eperitus is Odysseus’s man. He will say whatever Odysseus wants him to say.’

‘Eperitus is a man of honour,’ Agamemnon countered, turning his cold blue eyes on the Ithacan. ‘I will take him at his word. Tell us truthfully and on your oath, Eperitus: did Achilles promise Odysseus his armour?’

Eperitus looked at Odysseus, then raised himself slowly to his feet.

‘It’s true, Achilles did confer his armour on Odysseus,’ he admitted. ‘But those were not his last words. “To be worn honourably as a token of my gratitude,” he said, “for of all the Greeks, you alone have come to my aid.” He uttered this with his final breath, unaware that Ajax was fighting off the Trojans only a few paces away.’

Eperitus dropped back down on the bench and put his head in his hands, just as all around him every other member of the council leapt to their feet and began to shout again. But this time they were not calling out in shock or disbelief. Now they were hurling curses and accusations at the king of Ithaca, while Odysseus stood in the eye of the storm staring at his captain. Had Eperitus told the truth to uphold his own sense of honour, or was he doing what he thought was best for his king? Odysseus knew it was the latter, and he did not blame him.

‘Shut up, damn you all!’ Menelaus yelled.

When the voices showed no sign of abating, he pointed to Talthybius, who raised a horn to his lip and blew. Once again a reluctant silence fell over the debate.

‘Then the judgment has yet to be made,’ Ajax declared. ‘Come, Agamemnon, you’ve seen the trickery and deceit this man is capable of. Make your decision and make it quickly.’

Agamemnon sat back down and shook his head.

‘I’ve a mind to bury this cursed armour along with Achilles’s ashes in that barrow, where it can’t cause any more trouble.’

‘And have some grave robber steal it when the war has ended and we’ve all sailed home?’ Odysseus replied. ‘That would be folly indeed. But I’ve another suggestion, if you’ll hear it. Ajax and I have proved ourselves equal in our valour: but if you want to know who was the most courageous, then ask the Trojans we fought. Let them decide between us.’

‘A fair proposal,’ Agamemnon said. ‘What do you say, Ajax?’

Ajax gave a surly nod and Talthybius was sent with an armed escort to fetch a dozen of the men who had been captured during the retreat from the Scaean Gate. It was not long before Talthybius returned, followed by a procession of bruised and dishevelled-looking Trojans with their wrists bound together by leather cords. Most were tired old men or frightened lads, and without their armour and weapons they looked little better than a band of slaves. Only three had the demeanour of true warriors, their bodies marked with old battle scars and their eyes proud and still belligerent. It was one of these that Agamemnon beckoned forward.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked in the Trojan tongue.

‘Lethos, son of Thymoites.’

‘You fought in the battle by the Scaean Gate?’

‘I fought by the Gate, my lord, where Achilles was killed. And then I joined the pursuit of your army across the plain.’

‘Where you surrendered your arms and your honour,’ Agamemnon non replied, a hint of stiffness in his voice. ‘I want you and your countrymen to answer a simple question. Reply truthfully and you will enjoy meat and wine for a month, instead of bread and water. Do you speak Greek?’

Lethos nodded.

‘Then tell us who the Trojans fear most among the Greeks,’ Ajax demanded, towering over the man.

Lethos looked up at the giant warrior, then about at the faces of the rest of the council. He walked back to join his comrades and spoke with them in whispers, before returning to stand between Agamemnon and Ajax.

‘I know you, my lord. Many times I have seen you in battle, killing without mercy or prejudice. I also saw you carry away the body of the Butcher – Achilles – as strong and tireless as an ox. Yes, the name of King Ajax is well known and greatly feared in Troy.’

Ajax gave a satisfied nod and looked at Agamemnon. ‘You hear? I am the one they fear the most. Give the armour to me.’

‘Your pardon, my lord,’ Lethos interrupted, narrowing his eyes determinedly while taking a step back. ‘We were not asked who we feared the most, but who fought with the greatest courage at the Gate. Though you proved your strength, there was another who wrought havoc among our ranks, killing Trojans by the dozen and preventing us in our fury from capturing Achilles’s body. He was the man who captured me, and he is standing there.’

The assembly erupted in uproar once more as he pointed at Odysseus, but another blast on Talthybius’s horn brought silence.

‘Then the matter is decided,’ Agamemnon declared. ‘Talthy-bius, take these men back and give them meat and wine. Odysseus, come forward and claim what is yours. But first I insist that you and Ajax take oaths of friendship to each other . . .’

‘Friendship?’ Ajax boomed. ‘With a liar and a cheat? No, not I! Take your armour, Odysseus, and wear it with a fool’s pride. You may have frightened these Trojan women into choosing you, but I tell you now that armour will never bring you glory. As far as I’m concerned, it will be a mark of shame. May it be your downfall!’

He spat in the sand at Odysseus’s feet then stormed past him, shoving aside Idomeneus and Sthenelaus and kicking over one of the benches before forcing a passage through the packed soldiers beyond. On the opposite side of the circle, Eperitus rose heavily and slipped away into the crowd, unable to watch as Odysseus stepped forward to claim the armour of Achilles.

‘What will you do now?’

Eperitus turned to see Arceisius following him, an anxious look on his ruddy face.

‘I can’t stay here, that’s for sure. I told the truth before the council, thinking I was saving Odysseus from his own folly, and then Agamemnon awarded him the armour anyway.’

‘You only did what you thought was right.’

‘I betrayed him! Perhaps all that’s left to me now is to get a horse and ride south, possibly find a ship back to Greece.’

‘And Astynome?’

Eperitus looked at Arceisius. In his shame at his disloyalty he had not thought about the woman he loved. Just then, Omeros appeared.

‘What is it?’ Eperitus snapped, annoyed by the concern on the young bard’s face.

‘I just wanted to say you were right to tell the truth back there, sir.’

Eperitus felt a sudden stab of guilt. He looked at Omeros and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Was I? Or am I just letting my foolish sense of honour get in the way again? And how have I profited from it? The greatest friendship I’ve ever had is over and I’m back where I was twenty years ago – an outcast without anywhere to call home. Perhaps it’s the judgment of the gods upon me that he was awarded the armour fairly in the end, without resort to lies or trickery.’

‘But he wasn’t, sir,’ Omeros said, shaking his head.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You remember Eurybates and I accompanied him to his hut? Well, it wasn’t the only place we visited. After he’d bathed and dressed we went to those old cattle pens where they keep prisoners before they’re sold or exchanged. He told them they might be called upon to say who they thought was the bravest Greek, and promised to release them if they chose him.’

Eperitus looked at him with disbelieving eyes. ‘Then the whole debate was a fraud from beginning to end.’

‘But why?’ Arceisius asked. ‘Why would Odysseus dishonour himself for the sake of another man’s armour? I don’t understand.’

‘I think do,’ Eperitus answered. He paused to collect his thoughts, then looked at his companions. ‘Somehow, Odysseus believes the armour of Achilles will give him the glory he lacks. But, more than anything, it’s the war itself. It’s sucking the humanity out of all of us. Look what it did to Achilles and what it’s doing to Ajax. And me, too – I’ve been so full of my own pride I haven’t realized the people I care most about are being destroyed. But it’s in my power to change it, and by all the gods on Olympus I’m going to!’

‘But how?’

‘Never mind, Arceisius. I’m leaving the army – I’ve no choice about that anyway – but I’m not heading south. There’s something else I need to do, but you and Omeros have to delay Odysseus while I escape.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

Eperitus looked at his friend and smiled. For a moment he recalled the first time he had seen him, twenty years ago on Ithaca: he had been a young shepherd boy then, but now he was a veteran warrior with responsibilities to his king.

‘No, Arceisius. When this war’s over you have a wife to go back to on Ithaca, and what’s more you’re no longer my squire. You haven’t been for a long time now. Your place is to serve Odysseus, and the best way you can perform your duty is to keep him away from the Ithacan camp until I’m gone.’

He slapped Arceisius on the shoulder, nodded to Omeros, then turned and disappeared among the hundreds of soldiers still lingering on the beach. When he reached his own hut it was to find Astynome busy cooking a delicious-smelling stew for their evening meal. She walked over to embrace him, but he slipped away from her fingertips and ran over to the table where his armaments were laid out.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, her beautiful face suddenly anxious as she came over to help him with the buckles of his leather cuirass.

‘Never mind me. Put your sandals and cloak on. We’re leaving at once.’

She looked at him, momentarily confused, then without further question lifted the stew off the flames and did as she was instructed. Within moments they were ready – Eperitus fully armed with his spear and grandfather’s shield, Astynome in her plain travel-cloak with the hood thrown over her black hair. As they left the hut and saw the bands of purple, vermilion and red filling the sunset sky, she turned and placed her hands on Eperitus’s shoulders.

‘Stop, now. Tell me where we are going or I refuse to take another step.’

‘Then I’ll carry you!’

She ducked away from him and held up an admonishing finger.

‘Tell me, Eperitus. I won’t resist or question you, I just want to know.’

Eperitus took a deep breath and looked around himself. The Ithacan soldiers were returning from the debate in twos or threes and had already set about making fires and preparing their evening meal. There was a jovial mood about them, pleased at Odysseus’s success. But there was no sign of the king.

‘I’m leaving the army for good.’

‘Leaving Odysseus?’

‘Yes, and you’re coming with me – at least to the camp gates.’

Astynome frowned. ‘And beyond the gates?’

‘We’ll take a couple of horses and then I want you to ride back to Troy.’

‘Not without you.’

‘Only for a short time, then we can be together for good. I want you to find my father and tell him to meet me at the temple of Thymbrean Apollo at midnight. No more questions now. Let’s go.’

They turned and headed up the slope towards the walls that protected the camp. As they left, Eurylochus stepped out from behind the corner of the hut, where he had been listening to every hushed word of the conversation. He smiled to himself and slipped off to find Odysseus.

Chapter Forty-Five

THE MADNESS OF AJAX

‘Who’s the woman, Eperitus?’

Diocles and the other guards swung the gates open as Eperitus and Astynome approached.

‘A friend of mine,’ he replied, slapping Astynome’s backside so that the Spartans understood what he meant. Astynome shot him a glance from beneath her hood but said nothing. ‘I’m taking her back to her father’s farm. I pay well for his goods and I wouldn’t want them to get lost.’

‘No, I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ Diocles said, eyeing the fine figure beneath the cloak. ‘Are his goods for sale to anyone else?’

‘You’ll find my father’s “goods” are very picky, Greek!’ Astynome snapped.

‘She’s just as fiery in bed,’ Eperitus added, holding up his hand apologetically as Diocles’s face suddenly darkened. ‘If the Trojan men had her temper they’d have beaten us years ago.’

Diocles’s frown receded a little, while behind him the other guards laughed and jeered at him.

‘Well, just you make sure you escort her out of the camp every time she visits, because if I catch her I might just have to teach her some manners.’

Eperitus smiled and gave a tug on his horse’s reins, leading it over the causeway towards the open plain. Astynome followed, pulling her smaller mount behind her. The sky above them was already a deep blue and marked with a smattering of early stars. The mountains in the east had darkened to a jagged line of black peaks against the horizon.

‘Couldn’t you have thought of something better to say?’ Astynome berated him as they moved out of earshot. ‘I’m no prostitute and I don’t like being compared to one.’

Eperitus did not reply. The charade at the gate over, his heart was heavy again and his mind filled with dark thoughts. The only comfort was the presence of Astynome – despite her temporary exasperation – and he tried to distract himself by thinking of the rest of his life spent with her. Then his sharp ears caught footsteps following behind and he turned to see a familiar figure coming towards them in the dusky half-light.

‘Arceisius! What are you doing here?’

‘Where are you going, Eperitus? I think you should tell me.’

‘I can’t stay with the army.’

‘You’re going to Troy with Astynome, aren’t you?’

There was a strange look in Arceisius’s eye, as if he knew the truth but could not bring himself to believe it. Eperitus hesitated, not knowing how to answer.

‘Yes, he is,’ Astynome answered, reaching out and placing a calming hand on Arceisius’s upper arm.

‘I’m going to end the war, Arceisius. I’m going to meet my father in the temple of Thymbrean Apollo—’

‘Your father!’

‘Yes. He says he can bring peace and I’m willing to give him a chance. I don’t think he’s acting on behalf of Priam, but peace is peace and I’m at the point where I’ll take it in any form it’s offered.’

Eperitus crouched beside Astynome’s horse with his hands cupped together. Astynome stepped on to his crossed fingers and mounted.

‘But you hate Apheidas,’ Arceisius continued. ‘You’ve hated him for as long as I’ve known you. And now you’re betraying Odysseus for his sake? How can you, after all you and Odysseus have been through together?’

‘You can call me a traitor if you wish, Arceisius, but I’m doing this for Odysseus’s sake, and for Astynome’s. Do you think I’d ever give up my honour for personal gain?’ He mounted his horse and took the reins, turning the beast to face Arceisius. ‘My honour is everything I’ve ever had, but if I can stop this war by surrendering it, then it’ll be worthwhile. Odysseus needs to get back to Ithaca before he loses all trace of who he really is; and I’ll not have Astynome raped or worse if the Greeks ever succeed in taking Troy.’

Suddenly the point of Arceisius’s sword was pressed against his stomach, just beneath the line of his cuirass.

‘I won’t let you go, Eperitus. You’re ill – a fever or something – but whatever it is, you’re not yourself. You’re not thinking clearly.’

‘My thoughts are clearer than they’ve ever been, my friend. For years all I’ve wanted is glory and honour, and all it’s ever brought me has been pain and loss. And I believe my father has changed, too. He regrets the past, I’m certain of it, and I’m going to give him the chance to redeem himself. So if you want to stop me, you’re going to have to kill me.’

There was a pause, broken only by the flapping of the north wind in their cloaks. Then Arceisius withdrew his sword and slipped it back into its scabbard.

‘Go then, traitor. And may the gods forgive you.’

Ajax sat hunched up on a boulder on the northernmost slopes of the bay. The myriad stars above him seemed to be reflected in the camp below, where thousands of fires guttered and glimmered in the breeze from the sea. The dark, countless shapes of the galleys stood out against the grey of the beach, where their high sterns were lapped by the moon-brushed breakers of the Aegean, charging and retreating again and again across the sand. The roaring of the waves that had hushed the dreams of every Greek for ten years seemed suddenly fresh and soothing to Ajax as he sat with whetstone in hand, repeatedly sweeping it across the blade of the sword Hector had given him after their duel, so many weeks before. All around him were the vast herds of sheep, goats, cattle and oxen that fed the Greek army. They had settled for the night and were lying close to each other for warmth, filling the air with the pungent smell of their bodies. Occasionally a beast would stir, causing a chain reaction of shifting and bleating, but Ajax took no notice of them. Instead, he kept scraping his whetstone over the gleaming blade and staring down at the grey mass of Agamemnon’s tent.

A large fire burned on the sand nearby, sending a column of spark-filled smoke into the air. Black outlines could be seen against the flames, busy jointing and carving up a score of carcasses for the feast that was taking place inside. Every king, prince and captain in the army had been invited to celebrate the end of the official mourning period for Achilles; all of the chief Greeks would be inside, cramming food into their mouths as if Achilles had never existed. But for Ajax, the mourning period was not yet over. When the messenger had arrived with Agamemnon’s invitation, Ajax had refused even to acknowledge his presence. How dare Agamemnon ask him to attend his banquet after he had denied him Achilles’s armour, which was his by blood right and by right of the fact that he was the greatest warrior in the whole army? And no doubt Menelaus, Nestor and the others would all be there to gloat over his defeat! They hated him to a man, jealous of his strength and ferocity in battle, and the fact that he had always covered himself in greater glory than the rest of them combined. What was worse, he could not stand the thought of being in the presence of Odysseus, who would doubtless be showing off Achilles’s armour and taking every opportunity to remind Ajax of his victory. A victory for injustice and nothing more.

Ajax swiped the whetstone over the blade one final time, then returned it to the small leather pouch that hung from his belt. He held the sword up and watched the faint light of the full moon cascade down its length. It was a good sword and a far greater token of glory than the armour Odysseus had been awarded, for at least Hector had given it to him in honour of his fighting prowess. Now he would use both sword and prowess to show the rest of the Greeks that he was not to be dismissed lightly or made a mockery of. He slid down from the rock and strode determinedly through the long grass, an angry sneer contorting his features.

‘If you go down to that tent, Ajax, I promise you it will end in disaster.’

Ajax spun round to see a young shepherd sitting on the boulder he had just vacated. He was as tall as Ajax, but white-skinned and of slender build. His hair shone like silver in the moonlight and he stared at Ajax with large grey eyes that seemed wise and ageless and yet filled with energy and laughter. In his right hand was a tall crook and over his left arm was draped a fleece of silvery wool.

‘Who are you?’ Ajax demanded. ‘Where did you spring from?’

‘Come now,’ the shepherd replied, ‘don’t you recognize an immortal when you see one? You may grudge our help in battle, son of Telamon – always reluctant to share your glory – but you still honour us with sacrifices. Only the other day you offered me a bullock . . .’

‘Mistress Athena!’ Ajax exclaimed, bowing his head and dropping on to one knee. ‘Forgive my slowness.’

‘And where are you off to on this fine evening, Ajax?’

Ajax stared at the ground, glad the goddess could not see the guilt written on his features. ‘To . . . to Agamemnon’s tent. There’s a feast.’

‘A good idea. Best not to let your anger fester – speak with the King of Men and Odysseus, let them know you bear them no ill will. But give me Hector’s sword first. I will take it back to your hut for you.’

‘I’d rather not, Mistress.’

‘I see,’ said Athena, though she had seen all along. ‘Then you’re set on teaching Agamemnon and Odysseus a lesson, and perhaps a few of the others too, in your anger.’

‘Yes,’ Ajax answered, raising his angry eyes to the goddess. ‘Yes! They humiliated me in front of the whole army and I can’t stand it. I won’t stand it!’

‘Don’t blame Agamemnon or Odysseus, or even the Trojan prisoners. Blame yourself, Ajax! You have insulted the gods too many times. Do you think we have turned a blind eye to your proud insolence? Well, we haven’t. It was Zeus’s will that Achil-les’s armour was given to Odysseus – not for anything Odysseus has done, but to punish you. And if you continue on this course you’re planning, then the vengeance of the gods will be complete.’

‘Then let Zeus strike me down!’

‘No, Ajax. You have lived your life without our help, so let your demise be in the same manner. But I have come to tell you it is not too late. You have your admirers on Olympus, myself among them. Beg our forgiveness and mend your ways and all may yet be well with you. Don’t forget your wife and child . . .’

‘It’s for their sake I have to do this,’ Ajax retorted. ‘I will not have Eurysaces bullied by other children because his father let himself be mocked by lesser men. And if the gods are against me in this, then curse the gods!’

Athena slid down from the rock and faced him.

‘Poor fool,’ she said, and struck him over the forehead with her crook.

When Ajax came to it was with a pounding headache and blurred vision. He looked up and saw the stars were somehow distorted, as if he were viewing them through a glass. He closed his eyes and rubbed at them with his knuckles, until slowly he felt the thickness in his head pass. When he looked at the stars again he could see them clearly and noticed they had barely moved in their stations, telling him he had only blacked out for a short time. He looked around for Athena, but there was no sign of her and he concluded he must have been dreaming. Then, with a sudden resurgence in his appetite for revenge, he slipped Hector’s sword from its scabbard and set off down the slope.

Four guards stood at the entrance to the tent, their ceremonial armour gleaming orange in the light of the nearby fire. A few paces away were a dozen or so slaves, busily preparing food and wine to supply the feast inside the vast pavilion. The noise of it was spilling out through the different entrances, along with the sounds of a lyre, drunken singing and the playful laughter of women.

The guards were chatting idly among themselves and only saw the glimmer of Ajax’s sword when it was too late. The first fell to his knees with the point in his throat, before keeling over without a sound. Another had his neck sliced almost clean through so that his helmeted head hung down over his back. The last two ran into each other in their panic and fell across one of the guy ropes. Ajax finished them quickly, then turned to face three slaves who were running towards him with torches and carving knives. Despite their bravery they were no match for Ajax’s strength and skill and soon all three of them lay dying in pools of their own blood; the others ran off among the tents, thinking only of saving their own miserable lives.

Ajax saw the blood on his sword and grinned to himself. Behind him, the sound of music and singing seemed to grow louder as the revellers remained ignorant of the threat that was but a moment away from bringing murder and destruction into their midst. He edged closer and for some reason was reminded of the time when he had first entered the great hall at Sparta and staked his claim on Helen. There had been a fight on that occasion, too, though a ban on weapons had saved many men their lives.

Suddenly a man came staggering out of the tent, pulling up his tunic and looking for a place to urinate. Ajax recognized him as Peisandros, one of the Myrmidon captains.

‘Ajax,’ he said, focusing drunken eyes on the giant figure before him.

Then his gaze fell to the pile of bodies. A moment later Ajax’s sword was in his heart and his corpse dropped to the ground. Ajax stepped across him and pushed open the large canvas flap.

The scene inside was one he had witnessed many times before. Slaves carried platters of meat and kraters of wine to tables that were already overflowing with food and drink. High-born warriors from every city across Greece sat arm in arm on long benches, singing loudly and tonelessly. Girls in varying states of undress floated here and there like bees, drifting from one lap to another. Every leader in the army was present, along with their captains and favourites, all of them roaring drunk and only sitting because they were too intoxicated to stand. And there, against the west wall of the tent, were Agamemnon and Odysseus, seated next to each other like gods presiding over an Olympian wedding. As Ajax had expected, Odysseus was wearing Achilles’s breastplate and greaves, with the shield and helmet at the side of his heavy wooden chair.

At first no one seemed to notice Ajax, despite his vast size and the sword in his hand dripping gore on the fleece below. Then a half-naked slave girl leapt from the lap of Menelaus and screamed, pointing at the blood-spattered newcomer. With three giant strides, Ajax crossed the floor of the tent and hewed her pretty head from its body. The screaming – along with the music and singing – stopped, only to be followed by a new cacophony of terrified shouts and the crash of overturned chairs and tables as people ran to the door of the tent.

But Ajax was quicker than all of them and, turning, began to lay about himself with Hector’s sword. The first to fall were the slaves, herded before their masters like sheep. The unfortunate bard was among them, holding up his lyre for protection; Ajax’s sword smashed through it with ease and opened up the man’s chest and stomach, spilling his intestines over the luxurious rugs below. Then Sthenelaus, Diomedes’s companion, attacked Ajax with a carving knife and was killed by a thrust through the heart. In his rage, Diomedes picked up a table and charged at Ajax, but the giant warrior knocked it away with a swing of his arm and sliced his obsessively sharpened sword down into Diomedes’s skull. His death shocked the other kings, who turned to the walls of the tent and began to arm themselves with the trophies Agamemnon had taken from the Trojans he had killed. But Ajax was no longer concerned with fighting battles and winning glory: he wanted to avenge himself in the blood of the men who had forsaken him, and he fell on them with the full might of his wrath. Menestheus’s arm was severed as he charged at Ajax with a spear; next Idomeneus fell, his throat opened neatly so that he dropped to the floor and poured a dark mass of blood over the heaped furs and fleeces. Many others followed, and as their bodies piled up, someone slashed open the opposite wall of the tent and sent the remaining slaves to fetch help. Then, from the ranks of the leaders – who were too proud and foolish to flee – Teucer and Little Ajax stepped forward with their hands raised. Ajax was shocked to see them there at first, but as they began to plead with him to come to his senses he realized they had betrayed him and had gone over to Agamemnon. He leapt at them in a fury and plunged his sword into his namesake first, who screamed loudly as his soul was torn from his body. Teucer followed, stabbed through the back as he turned to run. Suddenly, Ajax caught the gleam of a blade as a figure lunged at him from his right. He turned instinctively, recognized the squat, muscular figure of Odysseus, and knocked the sword from his hand before striking his attacker over the head with the pommel of his own weapon.

Now the others rushed at him as one and Ajax demonstrated to them their folly in not awarding Achilles’s armour to him. Limbs and heads were parted from torsos in a blood-drenched rage as Hector’s sword carried out the task it had been created for – to slay the enemies of Troy. Last to fall was Menelaus, who had robbed Ajax of Helen twenty years before – another great injustice that he had not been able to avenge because of the oath Odysseus had tricked the other suitors into swearing. He delivered a wound to Menelaus’s stomach and as he pleaded for mercy, Ajax smiled and asked him who he thought was the greatest of the Greeks now, before sinking the point of his sword into the Spartan king’s throat.

A sound from the shadows at the back of the tent made him turn. In the flickering glow from the hearth, Ajax could see the King of Men standing there with his hands held out like a suppliant pleading for mercy. A soothing smile was on his lips, but his cold blue eyes were full of fear.

‘Ajax, I’ve changed my mind,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘Achilles’s armour was always meant to be yours, your skill here tonight has proved that beyond doubt.’

‘You’ve had your chance to make the right decision, King of Men,’ Ajax sneered. ‘But you chose the wrong man and now I have come to collect what is rightfully mine. Your pleading and grovelling is meaningless. All your allies are dead. Your great expedition is over. And now you will die.’

Agamemnon dropped the shield and made a sudden dart for the entrance. Ajax ran to intercept him but the Mycenaean king was too quick, reaching the gore-spattered canvas flap while Ajax was still on the other side of the hearth. Then, as he tore the flap open, he slipped on the spilled intestines of the dead bard and fell. Squirming on to his back, Agamemnon looked up and saw Ajax towering over him, a vengeful grin on his brutish face as he hacked his sword down through his neck and decapitated him. But Ajax was not satisfied with merely killing the king; reaching down and seizing his jaw he pulled the mouth open and pushed the point of his sword inside. A moment later, the tongue that had awarded the armour of Achilles to Odysseus was in Ajax’s fingers. The king of Salamis held it above his head and laughed joyously, before turning and tossing it into the flames of the hearth. The fire fizzled gratefully.

Ajax’s eyes now fell on Odysseus, who was groaning as he returned to consciousness. Hanging from one of the posts that held the high roof of the tent up was a halter that Agamemnon used to train his horses. Ajax grabbed this and strode over to the king of Ithaca. Unbuckling the bronze breastplate, he lifted the two halves away from Odysseus’s torso then seized the hem of the tunic beneath and tore it open.

‘What are you doing?’ Odysseus grunted, still groggy from the blow to his head. ‘Don’t you realize this is madness?’

Ajax raised the halter over his head then brought it down with terrible force across Odysseus’s exposed back. He cried out in pain. Another blow followed, then another.

‘Stop! This is all madness.’

‘This isn’t madness, Odysseus. This is revenge!’

‘No,’ Odysseus bit back, staring up at his attacker. ‘This is madness. The gods have robbed you of your wits, Ajax. Look about yourself.’

Ajax raised his eyes to the carnage he had wreaked in the tent. Bodies and parts of bodies lay everywhere. The walls glowed red in the flames for a moment, and then faded away like a sea mist in a morning breeze. He looked up and saw that the roof of the tent was gone and he was staring instead at the full moon, drifting over a bank of thin cloud and surrounded by dim stars. His mouth opened a little and then, reluctantly at first, he lowered his gaze again and saw that he was back on the slopes overlooking the bay. The fires still burned below and there, dominating the centre of the camp, was Agamemnon’s tent. Sounds of feasting and music were carried up to him on the night air and he knew at once that the slaughter he had caused there had been but a figment of his disturbed mind. And yet he could still feel the sticky blood in the palm of his hand as it gripped the sword, and still more blood between his fingers. He held up his hands and saw they were covered in gore to his biceps.

‘What have I done?’ he whispered to himself, dropping the sword.

But instead of the clang of metal on hard earth, the heavy weapon fell on something soft. Ajax looked down and saw the sword lying across the bodies of two rams. One lay dead without a mark on its body, while the other had been decapitated and its fleece was drenched in its own blood; the head was nearby with its tongue lying beside it. All around were the bodies of sheep, goats and cattle, their moon-silvered cadavers heaped one upon another, score upon score all across the upper slope, drenching the parched grass with their dark blood. Ajax groaned and slumped to his knees, burying his head in his red hands as warm tears flooded his closed eyelids. A feeling of deep shame settled over him, pressing him down into the soft fleece of one of the butchered rams.

‘Wretched, proud fool. I thought I would teach Agamemnon and the others a lesson, but instead I have been the pupil of the gods. They’ve shown me my true self – an insolent brute and a man without honour.’

He raised his bloodstained face to the glittering firmament above and as his cry of despair rolled down the hillside to the camp below it was answered by the calling of other voices. Looking up, he saw a line of a dozen or so torches heading up the slope. Someone must have heard the terrible slaughter or be wondering why panicked livestock had been driven down among the tents. Quickly, his eyes wide and his breathing heavy, Ajax snatched up Hector’s sword and ran.

Chapter Forty-Six

FATHER AND SON

Ajax’s hut was at the bottom of the slope. The guard stepped aside, shocked by the blood that covered the king’s body, and Ajax pushed past him through the canvas flap. The small hearth inside was a mass of smouldering embers that bathed the hut in a warm glow, and the only sounds were the soft breathing of Tecmessa mingled with the baby-snores of little Eurysaces. He crossed the floor and knelt beside them, sword still in hand.

‘My love,’ he whispered, reaching out and gently touching the locks of thick black hair that hid his wife’s face. She did not stir. ‘And Eurysaces, my boy.’

He looked down at the child and felt the tears swell up inside him again. He thought of the time he had wasted in battle or in counsel with the other army leaders, rather than spending it with his son. He recalled how he had berated Achilles for threatening to return to Phthia, and how he had declared he would rather give Tecmessa and Eurysaces up before he surrendered his honour. What a fool he had been! He had chased after glory and renown and given barely the scraps of morning and evening to his family. Now that chance was gone and in time he would be little more than a faded memory to Eurysaces; indeed, the boy would know more about him from the stories of his deeds and misdeeds than from his own recollections.

He reached out to touch his son’s hair, but stopped himself.

‘What if he wakes and sees you, sword in hand and covered in blood?’ Ajax said to himself. ‘No, leave him be. Leave them both.’

He stood and took a step back. Then he turned and saw his great, sevenfold shield propped against the back of his chair. He fetched it and laid it down gently next to his son.

‘I give this shield to you, Eurysaces,’ he said quietly as his tears fell in heavy drops on to the oxhide. ‘It was made by Tychus of Hyle, a master of his art. I named you after it, little Broad Shield, and now I hope it will always remind you of your father. Look after your mother for me. I leave her in your care now. Goodbye.’

He left the hut to find the guard had now been joined by two others. There were angry voices coming from the slopes above, where torches were moving this way and that.

‘My lord . . .’

‘Guard my wife and son. I’ve done something shameful and men will be angry with me for it, but I don’t want my family to suffer for my sake. You – fetch Teucer and Little Ajax. Tell them . . . never mind, just bring them here.’

‘But Lord Ajax, where are you going?’

Ajax ignored the soldiers’ cries and ran through the tents to the beach, continuing on past the lines of galleys until he saw the dark mound of Patroclus’s barrow ahead of him. At its heart was the golden urn Thetis had carried out of the water earlier that day, now filled with the mingled ashes of Achilles and his lover. By now the shouts on the slopes were growing dim and there were no sounds of pursuit, so he slowed to a walk as he approached the barrow. To his right the waves continued to wash up the beach as they had done since the creation of the world, drawn by the silver face of the moon that cast its ghostly light across the ocean. At last Ajax reached the barrow and knelt before it, looking all around to ensure no one else was in sight. Taking Hector’s sword, he placed the pommel against the packed earth and pushed it in so that the hilt was buried and the blade stood up towards his chest. Then he sat back on his heels.

‘If I’d known what a burden I was carrying when I brought your body back from the Scaean Gate, cousin, I’d have stripped that cursed armour off and thrown it to the Trojans there and then. Now it belongs to a lying scoundrel and my jealousy for it has driven me to terrible desires. I’ve no honour left, Achilles, and my glory lies slaughtered on the slopes above the camp. Only now do I see the gods were right to deny me your armour, and yet it pains me that they gave it to Odysseus. I only pray that they will destroy him as they’ve destroyed me. Curse you, Odysseus!’

And with that he fell forward on to the point of the sword.

The full moon had passed its zenith and was beginning to sink behind the topmost branches of the temple of Thymbrean Apollo when Eperitus heard the sound of approaching hooves. All night long he had been walking in circles, stamping his feet against the cold and rubbing his hands up and down his arms while he waited for Astynome to return from Troy, but now he slipped behind a large rock and stared up the slope towards the ridge. Moments later a line of horsemen approached carrying torches. There were a dozen at least, their outlines picked out clearly by the moonlight. One mount carried two figures, a man and a woman, and Eperitus instinctively knew they were his father and Astynome.

The horses stopped a spear’s throw from the entrance to the temple and the riders dismounted. Two men scouted forward with their naked swords gleaming, returning shortly afterwards to report the temple empty. Eperitus’s eyes could now pick out Apheidas’s face in the torchlight as he posted his men in pairs around the circle of trees, before taking Astynome and four men inside.

Eperitus felt his heart thumping hard against his ribcage. His fingers gripped the edge of the boulder as if reluctant to let go and he found himself wondering why he was there at all. It was not too late to return to where he had tethered his horse and ride south to new lands and new adventures. He did not have to become the traitor that Arceisius had accused him of being, or sell his honour for the sake of love as Palamedes had done – to be stoned to death by his comrades in punishment. But Palamedes had also been half Trojan, just as Eperitus was, and perhaps there was no such thing as treachery for men of divided blood. Perhaps they were free to choose their loyalties as they saw fit. But whether he was a traitor or not, he knew in his heart that he could not turn back now. He was an integral part of a larger tale. The gods must always have intended for him to be here, waiting to betray his friends so that he might save them; and though he did not know what lay ahead, he accepted his fate was before him, not behind him.

And still he hesitated, clinging to the boulder like a shipwrecked sailor to a broken mast. A year ago he would have charged into the temple intending to kill Apheidas or die in the attempt. Now the hatred that had dominated his entire adult life had lost its bite, even died altogether. He thought again of the encounter in the temple of Artemis at Lyrnessus and how his father had confessed himself a reformed man, regretting the mistakes of his youthful ambition. He had begged Eperitus to let the past go and the sadness in his eyes had seemed genuine – the look of a wiser man who had come to realize his family was all he had left in life. Doubtless his offer of peace could just be a trap, but Apheidas had already passed up better chances to take his son’s life, and the more Eperitus thought about how he had felt after losing Iphigenia, the more he wanted to believe his father’s appeal was genuine. At last, he tore his fingers from the boulder and reached down for the shield and spear that lay beside him. But before he stepped out to approach the nearest pair of Trojan guards – who were still some way off – he turned and gave a low whistle.

‘Come on out.’

He sensed the man’s breathing stop as he tried not to make any sound.

‘Arceisius, I know you’ve followed me here. Don’t force me to come over there and drag you out.’

There was a pause and then a cloaked figure stood up from behind a clump of scrubby bushes and came running over at a stoop.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew I was there?’ Arceisius complained. ‘At least you’ve been able to move around and stamp your feet to keep warm; I’ve been lying there freezing half the night when all you needed to do was come over and put me out of my misery.’

‘It’ll teach you not to interfere where you’re not welcome. But now you’re here, what is it you want?’

‘To protect you from your own foolishness. If you’re going to betray your countrymen then I can’t stop you; but if things don’t turn out as you’re expecting then you could do with an extra sword at your side. And I’m not convinced this isn’t a trap.’

‘It’s not a trap.’

‘All the same, I haven’t fought alongside you for ten years just to leave you when you need me most. At the very least I’m going to stay by you until they slam the gates of Troy in my face.’

‘And much use you’ll be with just that sword if it is a trap,’ Eperitus sniffed.

‘I’d have made too much noise carrying my shield and spear.’

‘Not much more than you did without them. But if you insist on coming, then let’s go.’

They stood to their full height and walked towards the nearest picket. The two Trojans spotted them quickly and lowered their spears.

‘Not a step closer! Who are you and what’s your business here?’

‘I am Eperitus, son of Apheidas,’ Eperitus replied in their own language, naming his sire for the first time in many years. ‘And this is Arceisius, son of Arnaeus. I’ve come to speak with my father.’

‘Apheidas is awaiting you,’ the guard said, relaxing a little. ‘But there was no mention of anyone else. Your friend will have to stay here with us.’

‘Either Arceisius comes with me or we both leave now.’

After a whispered discussion with his comrade, the soldier nodded and signalled for the two men to follow. He led them up to the top of the ridge from where they could see the dark, moonlit mass of Troy beyond the River Scamander, then turned with his torch held above his head and pointed at their weapons.

‘Leave those here with me. That isn’t negotiable.’

Eperitus hesitated for a moment then lay down his shield and spear, followed shortly after by his sword and dagger. Arceisius gave Eperitus a cynical look then threw his own weapon on the pile. Satisfied, the guard pointed them towards a gap in the circle of laurel trees.

Eperitus led the way into the shadowy interior, where strips of moonlight lay like rib bones across the flagstoned floor. Four soldiers stood at the corners of the temple, their sputtering torches casting a dim glow over the boles of the trees. At the far end was a white altar stone, tinted by the orange torchlight, and behind it an effigy of Apollo carved from the stump of a dead tree. Its legs, as they emerged from the roots, were entwined with thick fronds of ivy up to the knees. Its arms were locked by its sides – a necessity of being shaped from the bole of a tree – but in its left fist it clutched a horn bow and in its right a solid bronze arrow. Apheidas and Astynome stood on either side of the altar. They turned to look as Eperitus and Arceisius entered.

‘Eperitus!’ Astynome said, crossing the floor and embracing him. ‘I thought you might have changed your mind.’

‘You were late,’ he replied with a smile, kissing her forehead. It was cold from the ride to the temple. ‘Dawn isn’t very far off.’

‘But we’re here now and maybe soon we can be married.’

‘I hope so.’

‘That would be good,’ said Apheidas, taking a few paces towards his son. ‘Then I will have a daughter, too, and grandchildren.’

‘You haven’t got your son back yet,’ Eperitus replied.

‘Yet, you say. That’s more than I had hoped for. I’m glad you came, Son.’

He offered his hand and Astynome stepped away. Eperitus looked down and recalled the last time he had embraced his father in friendship – that same day twenty years ago in Alybas, when Apheidas had later murdered King Pandion and taken the throne for himself. It was still not too late to leave the temple and ride away, he reminded himself, but the moment he took his father’s hand he would be declaring himself a traitor to the Greek cause – an act no better than his father’s regicide.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Eperitus, but things have changed since we parted ways in Alybas. You’re my only son and I want you back. Nothing is more important to me than that.’

He pushed his hand nearer and smiled. Slowly, Eperitus reached out and took it, feeling his father’s rough, hot skin against his own. There was a moment in his heart when Odysseus, Ithaca and all the events of the war seemed to crowd in on him, and then were gone. He had passed through a doorway into a new life, as if the previous twenty years had been by-passed and had transported him and his father from that fateful day in Alybas to this day on the ridge above Troy. He smiled uncertainly at his father then turned to Astynome, whose closeness assured him this was not some strange dream.

Apheidas placed his other hand on Eperitus’s shoulder.

‘I know you hated me for what I did and that your hatred was real. But something like that doesn’t just go away.’

‘I’m coming to learn that only weak men allow the past to hold them back.’

‘Then was it the knowledge that you’re half Trojan that changed your mind? Or was it the love of a Trojan woman?’

‘It’s of no consequence where the blood in my veins originates from,’ Eperitus replied, ‘though you’re right that Astynome is one reason why I’m here. But it’s more than that. I’ve seen what men’s pride does to them, and how this war has turned their noble ideals into monstrous desires. It corrupts men’s souls. The war has to end so that good men like Odysseus can return to their families, and if the only thing stopping that is my own selfish pride, then it’s time I let the past go. If you can change, Father, then so must I – for Odysseus’s sake, and for Astynome’s.’

He reached out and took her hand.

‘This is the greatness I’ve always known was in you, Eperitus,’ Apheidas said. ‘That ability to choose when to do the right thing. And we will all need to make sacrifices if we want peace.’

‘But how is peace possible, Father?’ Eperitus asked. ‘Paris won’t surrender Helen and Menelaus won’t leave without her. Even if Paris was killed, Agamemnon has no intention of leaving Ilium without first destroying Troy and stealing her wealth. Besides, there’s a bitterness between Greeks and Trojans now that there never used to be. How can peace be possible?’

Apheidas did not answer immediately. He returned to the altar and ran a fingertip along its rough edges.

‘As I said, peace will require sacrifices. Painful sacrifices. Paris and Menelaus, Priam and Agamemnon – will any of them accept peace on anything less than their own terms? Would Hector or Achilles have compromised? Of course not. But I will.’

He looked at his son and there was a new hardness in his features.

‘I accepted a long time ago that Troy would never win this war and that peace was our only chance of survival. But that could never happen as long as Hector lived and gave the people hope of victory. That was why I persuaded him to go out and face Achilles.’

‘You sent him to his death?’ Arceisius asked, incredulously.

‘Yes – for the greater good of Troy. To pave the way for peace.’

Eperitus frowned. This was not what he had expected. He looked about at the stony-faced guards, then at Arceisius and Astynome before returning his gaze to his father.

‘And what else must happen for the sake of peace?’ he asked.

Apheidas gave him a reassuring smile. ‘I’m prepared to open the gates and let Agamemnon’s army in. An easy conquest, Son, that will see Helen returned to her rightful husband and Troy subjugated to Agamemnon. All I ask in return is that the people are spared and half the remaining wealth is left to them.’

‘No!’ Astynome protested, glaring at him with disbelieving eyes. ‘You never mentioned anything about opening the gates and—’

‘What other choice is there?’ he snapped back. ‘If Troy is to survive then we must make unpalatable decisions. The sacrifice of a few for the good of the many.’

Eperitus looked on in silence. When he had exposed Odysseus’s lies he had crossed a threshold. By coming to the temple of Thymbrean Apollo he had ensured he could never reverse that step, and that knowledge had given him the determination to see his betrayal through to the end. He had decided then that he would join his father in Troy and do whatever was required for an end to the war. But now he felt his stomach sink. He had expected Apheidas to propose a resolution acceptable to both sides; a diplomatic coup that would demonstrate his personal desire for peace. Instead, what he was suggesting was not peace at all. It was treachery. It was capitulation.

‘What about Priam and Paris?’ he demanded. ‘What about the Trojan royal line?’

‘Agamemnon can’t afford to leave Priam or one of his descendants on the throne,’ Apheidas answered coldly. ‘They’ll have to die, of course – right down to Hector’s infant son. Then another will be chosen to rule in Priam’s place, a Trojan capable of restoring Troy to its former glory and wealth, yet prepared to swear fealty to Agamemnon and his line.’

‘Who?’ Eperitus asked.

‘Don’t you understand yet?’ Astynome said, turning desperate eyes on her lover. ‘After you were the one who tried to convince me your father was nothing more than an ambitious, power-hungry murderer? He means himself. He wants to be the king of Troy!’

Chapter Forty-Seven

LOVE LOST

The man looked up at the high outer wall of the palace. Its sides were pale in the moonlight and he could see no hand or footholds in the smooth plaster. Looking about, he saw a handcart leaning against a nearby house. A moment later his black-cloaked form was atop the wall and dropping into the courtyard on the other side. He paused briefly, looking and listening for guards, but all he could hear were the voices of two men in the shadows beneath the roofed gateway. Satisfied they were ignorant of his presence, he crossed to the side door that he had been told would give him access to the palace corridors. It was unlocked, and after instinctively reassuring himself of the presence of his sword at his side and the dagger in his belt, he slipped inside.

The corridor within was lit only by a single, sputtering torch that revealed he was alone. Though he was a stranger to Ithaca, the layout of the palace had been explained to him in detail by the men who had hired him and he knew exactly where he would find Telemachus’s bedroom. Sliding his dagger from its leather sheath, he stole down the long passageway in silence, pausing briefly as he passed the open doorways of deserted storerooms on each side. Around the corner at the far end was another, shorter passage, again lit by a single torch. In the gloom he could make out the base of a flight of stone steps at the halfway point, leading up to the sleeping quarters above, while, further on, the corridor turned left. Ultimately, it led to the ground-floor bedroom that King Odysseus had constructed for himself and his wife, but the man had not been hired to kill Penelope, only her son who slept in the room directly above her.

The corridor and steps were unguarded and there was no sound of patrolling footsteps on the floor above. The Ithacans had clearly enjoyed peace for too long on their safe little island, protected from the corruption and violence that had overtaken the mainland since the kings had left for Troy. In northern Greece and the Peloponnese, where the man had learned his trade and been paid well for it, every noble household had armed men guarding its passageways at night. Almost disappointed that his hard-won skills would not be tested, the man slipped down the corridor to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Nothing. He took the steps quietly, but as he reached the top and looked both ways along the narrow corridor, the only sound he could hear was snoring from one of the rooms to his right. And so he gripped his dagger more firmly and moved stealthily towards the door that had been described to him.

He edged it open with his fingertips and looked inside. The room was spacious and by the moonlight that spilled in through the high, narrow window he could see a four-pillared bed with the sleeping boy beneath its piled furs. It did not concern him that his victim was so young – he had even murdered infants before at the behest of those who stood to gain from their deaths – and as he entered and closed the door behind him he whispered a prayer to any god who would accept it that the child would not wake before his blade had finished its work. Then, as he crossed the room, he caught something out of the corner of his eye – a line of twine at ankle height, barely distinguishable from the fleeces that softened the sound of his approach. But it was too late. He caught the line with the toe of his sandal and it tugged at something in the corner of the room. A moment later he saw something fall, followed by the clatter of metallic objects striking the floor in a cacophony of noise that shattered the peace of the night.

Instinctively, the man looked at the window. Realizing it was too high and small for a quick exit, he turned back to the door. But already he could hear the sound of approaching footsteps and the clank of weapons, and the next instant the door was kicked open and four men stood blocking his escape. One of them held a torch that threw a warm, flickering light into the bedroom. In that moment, it occurred to the assassin that he had but one hope of survival: the boy. He leaped across the room in a single bound and threw the furs from the bed, only to find more furs rolled up into the rough shape of a child’s body. Somehow he had been expected, and now he was caught.

‘Throw down your weapons.’

He turned to see a cloaked woman standing in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The four soldiers had entered the room and were standing two on each side of her, while behind her was a one-handed man leaning on a crutch. The assassin tossed his dagger at the feet of one of the soldiers and followed it with his short sword.

‘Who sent you?’ Penelope asked in a calm voice that concealed the anger she felt. ‘Who sent you to murder my son?’

The man did not answer. He had his instructions if he was caught, and for the sake of his assassin’s honour he intended to carry them out, but not yet.

‘I’ve expected an attempt on Telemachus’s life for some time now,’ the queen explained. ‘Hence the twine and the guards in the next room. It’s also why my son isn’t here. My husband left me to defend his kingdom while he was away, and that includes the heir to his throne. But though you came here to kill my only child, I am prepared to let you live on condition that you tell me who sent you. And when you do, you will be taken in a boat to the Peloponnese and forbidden on your oath to ever set foot on these islands again. Do you understand?’

The assassin nodded.

‘I will be only too pleased, my lady,’ he said. ‘But you won’t believe me, for you think of him as a loyal friend.’

‘Give me your word of oath and I will believe you.’

‘You should also know he is not alone,’ the man continued. ‘And I am not the only assassin in Greece. They will hire others . . .’

‘That’s why Telemachus was taken to Sparta several days ago,’ said Mentor, hobbling into the room to stand beside Penelope. ‘Out of harm’s way with Halitherses as a guardian; and there he will stay under the protection of the royal family – Penelope’s family – until the war in Troy is over. Then, when Odysseus and the army return, we will deal with your employer’s friends. But now, if you want to preserve your villain’s life, you’ll tell us who paid you to kill Telemachus.’

‘You promise I will be freed?’ he asked, looking at Penelope.

She nodded.

The man smiled. He was an assassin and the only code he followed was not to reveal who had employed him, so to lie on his oath was of no consequence. More importantly, Eupeithes had given him another name if he was captured, an innocent man who was also a member of the Ithacan Kerosia. His implication in the attempt on Telemachus’s life would earn him exile at the very least, and without him the Kerosia – and control of Ithaca – would inevitably slip into the hands of Eupeithes.

‘As Zeus himself is my witness, the man who hired me was called Nisus of Dulichium.’

‘Someone has to rule Troy,’ Apheidas said, shooting an angry, silencing glance at Astynome. ‘Why not me? I’ve fought as hard as any man in the army, Trojan or ally, and I’m the only one capable of saving the city from complete destruction. Tell me, Astynome, do you think Priam has been a good king? Do you?’

‘Yes!’

Apheidas gave a derisive laugh.

‘Commendable loyalty – typically Trojan. But everyone knows he should have sent Helen back the very moment Paris brought her to the palace. Any ruler worth his sceptre would have seen the trouble she would bring, but Priam never could deny a beautiful face. All Helen had to do was flash those eyes at him and expose a little cleavage and he was hers. The old lecher probably fancied he might visit her bed one night.’