The Gates Of Troy (Adventures of Odysseus)

The Ithacans looked at the tall, ungainly slave and did not envy him the task of restraining Achilles in the heat of battle.

As Achilles had predicted, no mention was made of the incidents in the glade, either by Agamemnon or any of the other nobles who had been present. Instead, the King of Men remained ensconced in his tent, doling out orders for the fleet to sail the following morning. Perhaps, Eperitus thought, he was keen not to highlight the snubs to his authority and risk widening the cracks that were already appearing in his tenuous alliance of states. And perhaps it would have too much of an irony to punish the acts of men who were seemingly trying to save his daughter from death at his own hands.

By the time Odysseus, Eperitus and Antiphus returned to the Ithacan camp a messenger was already waiting for them, bringing Agamemnon’s orders to prepare for an immediate departure. By the end of the day, Eperitus had worked harder than he had done in months to help get the Ithacan force ready to sail. Though he no longer had any heart for the expedition against Troy, especially under the command of the man who had murdered his daughter, he was glad of the distraction from his dark thoughts, which had been ranging between despair and vengeful anger since leaving the glade.

Men had to be organized back into their correct companies, weapons and equipment had to be stowed as efficiently as possible, and provisions for a long journey needed to be obtained. As there was no centralized supply system for the army, most of the essentials had to be squabbled over with the other factions, and items such as fruit, livestock and salt could only be extracted from the local populace at many times their normal worth. Eventually, though, everything was ready, and as the Ithacans began to settle down for the evening Eperitus slipped out of the camp and wandered into the trees.

While the sun set to leave a clear blue sky, tinged with pink in the west, he climbed the hill to the encampment of the main army. This was still in chaos, with soldiers running in all directions and captains barking orders in a dozen different accents and dialects, so he strolled under the sycamore trees and found his way to the standing stones guarding the entrance to the amphitheatre overlooking the Euboean Straits. The benches on the rocky slopes of the arena, where the Greek leaders had sat during their debates about the impending war, had been removed and the place was again a natural, three-sided bowl looking out to the east.

Eperitus moved to the eastern ledge and sat with his legs dangling over the cliff top, looking down at the vast armada of ships in the bay below. Scores of tiny black figures were still working on the galleys, some fitting spars and adjusting rigging while others knelt on the decks in teams, mending the sails that had been stowed for many weeks. Innumerable small boats crept up and down between the rows of ships, ferrying an endless traffic of crew and supplies to and from the shore. And above the hubbub of voices and the constant sound of hammering was the rushing of the westerly wind, which in the morning would drive the fleet to Troy.

But Eperitus’s mind was not on the activity below, or the looming shadow of Troy. Slowly, his thoughts and emotions were learning to accept that Iphigenia – beautiful, clever, compelling Iphigenia – was gone. He had failed to protect her from Agamemnon’s black ambition, and though he felt frequent surges of anger towards the King of Men, these were quickly quenched by the knowledge he could do nothing to exact his desire for revenge. Clytaemnestra had tricked him into promising not to harm her husband, robbing him of any solace for the cold emptiness of his grief, and for the second time in his life a great evil had been carried out before his eyes that he was powerless to prevent.

And yet he was no longer compelled to follow Odysseus to Troy and serve under the overall command of Agamemnon. As the final preparations of the small Ithacan fleet were being completed, Odysseus had turned to Eperitus and released him from his oath of service.

‘We’ve tried our hardest to stop this war, Eperitus,’ he had said, ‘but Achilles is right: there’s a greater force at play here than we can hope to defeat. Zeus himself wants it, meaning our pathetic efforts were damned from the start. But whether that means I won’t see my home for twenty years, or whether I can still cheat my doom, remains to be seen. However, that’s my fate, not yours, so I’ve decided to grant your request.’

‘Request?’ Eperitus had asked, though knowing in his heart what his friend was about to say.

Odysseus turned his sombre green eyes on him, and it was as if the last shred of his hope had gone. The king seemed to have accepted, at last, that he could not escape the war; that he would not see the woman he loved, or the child he barely knew, for many long and unbearable years to come – if he ever saw them again at all. And Eperitus knew that, in his sadness, Odysseus did not want both of them to be sucked into the inescapable, all-consuming whirlpool of Troy. If his friend was free, then part of him would be free also.

‘On the day Telemachus was dedicated to the gods you asked me to release you from your oath of service,’ he said. ‘I’m giving you the chance to go, if you still want it. I know how hard it will be for you at Troy, to see Agamemnon every day and yet be powerless to take the revenge that your honour requires. I’d rather you go back to Ithaca and protect my family and my home, until I return or Telemachus is old enough to rule in my stead. But I won’t order you, Eperitus: the choice is yours to make.’

Eperitus had not responded, but the possibility of turning his back on the war and leaving Odysseus had haunted his already dark thoughts ever since. It would be a betrayal; maybe not of his honour, but at least of his friendship with the king of Ithaca. He would fade into obscurity, a failed warrior fleeing the ghosts of his past. The alternative was the torment of facing Agamemnon every day at Ilium, sworn not only to permit him to carry on existing, but also to prevent others from taking his detestable life. Odysseus, in his wisdom, had known both options were difficult, and would not insist he choose one or the other.

Eperitus lay down on the soft, springy turf-the grass lush and green from the unseasonable rain – and looked up at the azure sky, already pricked by one or two stars. Suddenly a deep exhaustion came over him and his whole body felt leaden and drained of energy. He closed his eyes and listened to the preparations going on above and below him, as if he were in a bubble protected – at least for a short while – from the clamouring of war. Then, with the sound of the west wind filling his ears, he fell asleep.

He was woken by a long, low howling from the trees nearby. He sat up and looked about himself, but everything was dark and still under a moonless night sky. The westerly breeze sighed in the topmost branches of the sycamores, but there was no sound from the camp now. Below him, the fleet bobbed gently on the oily black surface of the bay, the shapes of the galleys only faintly distinguishable in the starlight. Then another lonely, mournful cry stretched out into the night air, closer now than before, and he stood and pulled his sword from its scabbard.

As the blade scraped out to shine with a dull gleam, Eperitus saw a shadowy figure enter the amphitheatre from between the two standing stones and come towards him. It was tall and slim, cloaked from head to foot in black, but as Eperitus turned the point of his sword towards it the hood was pulled back to reveal a woman.

‘Clytaemnestra!’ he exclaimed, shocked to see her pale, pretty face staring back at him. ‘What are you doing here? When did you arrive?’

The queen ignored his questions and, covering the small distance between them, threw her arms around his chest and laid her head against his shoulder. Even in his shock at seeing her he had felt a surge of guilt and expected her anger; so the feel of her body pressed against his and her long hands on his back brought a strange sensation of relief. He put his arms around her and stroked her hair.

‘I failed,’ he said softly. ‘I couldn’t stop him.’

‘You tried,’ she answered, her voice small and hoarse. ‘Don’t blame yourself. Our daughter is gone. I sensed her soul leaving this world as I stood in the courtyard before the great hall this morning, looking down across the plains.’

‘But Mycenae is three or four days away on horseback, and even by ship you couldn’t have reached Aulis this quickly.’

She nuzzled closer into his arms, so that her voice was slightly muffled by the thick cloak. ‘I have powers you can’t imagine, Eperitus, powers that go beyond visions and inner knowledge. I used them to come to you. To remind you of your oath.’

‘How could I forget?’ Eperitus replied bitterly, thinking again of Iphigenia’s ordeal in the glade and the sight of her blood trickling from the altar. ‘It was a cruel deception, Clytaemnestra. Cruel and hard to bear.’

‘Yes, but necessary. You may be Iphigenia’s father, but it was through the pain of my body that she was brought into the world. My patience taught her and my love cared for her, long before you even knew she existed. Would you deny my right to take vengeance on my husband?’

‘Of course not – but why wait for the war to end? Can’t you use these powers you boast of to destroy Agamemnon?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I want to kill him with my own hands. But for that I will have to wait until he returns to Mycenae. That’s why I want you to keep him alive until the war is over, if you can.’

Eperitus pulled away.

‘You ask too much! If you’d seen what he did, Nestra – if you’d seen the look of relish in his eye when he brought that blade down . . .’

‘Enough!’ she shouted, and the echo of her voice rang off the sides of the amphitheatre. ‘Enough. I understand how hard it is for you to stay your hand, and that’s why I had to rely on the only force I knew could possibly restrain you – your own sense of honour. But I promise you, the time will come when you can take your revenge on Agamemnon – the gods have revealed it to me. His downfall will begin at Troy, by your hand.’

Eperitus smiled derisively.

‘Then haven’t your gods also told you Odysseus has given me leave to go home? He, at least, understands how difficult it will be for me to live in the shadow of Agamemnon after what he did to our daughter.’

‘But you must go,’ Clytaemnestra exclaimed. ‘And not because I want you to protect Agamemnon.’

‘Oh? Then for what? To be pulled apart by my sense of honour and my desire for revenge?’

‘You’re speaking like a fool, Eperitus. Don’t you realize your destiny is with Odysseus? Gaea has revealed to me that Troy will not fall unless both you and he are there. I knew it long before I asked you to run away with Iphigenia and me, but I chose to ignore what the goddess was telling me, just as Odysseus has been trying to ignore his own fate.’

Eperitus turned and walked further along the ledge, looking out over the vast Greek fleet. He kicked a stone and watched it disappear into the darkness below.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said caustically. ‘Your precious Agamemnon and the doom of Troy are safe. I’ve decided not to accept Odysseus’s offer: my place has always been at his side, so I’ve decided to go with him to Ilium. What else is there left for me to do? At least I can seek some form of vengeance in Trojan blood, even if you’ve ensured I can’t look for it in the death of your husband.’

Clytaemnestra approached and took his hand. ‘Don’t resent me, Eperitus. I did what I had to do. But another fate awaits you at Troy, a fate that has already been hinted at by Calchas. Have you forgotten the second secret he spoke of?’

Eperitus looked at Clytaemnestra, her face beautiful but cold under the starlight.

‘I’m tired of prophecies and secrets, Nestra. Let the cruel gods do as they please with me; after Iphigenia’s death, I don’t much care about anything any more.’

Clytaemnestra put her arms around him again and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘You’ll care about this, my dear,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll care about this.’

Chapter Twenty-nine

TENEDOS

Helen stood on the battlements of Pergamos, looking out across the plains and the glittering sea to where the sun was setting in the west. But for the guards at the angles of the walls, she was alone, leaning her elbows on the parapet and thinking about the events of the previous few days. Since arriving in Troy she had been treated with reverence and even love by its citizens. Paris had made a deliberate point of wandering the streets of Pergamos and the lower city with her at his side, and wherever they went they were greeted with an uproar of delighted voices. People rushed from their houses to press around the couple, their faces bright with joy for the prince’s happiness, and yet awed at the sight of the mysterious woman he had brought back with him from Greece. Some of the older Trojans might have shaken their heads in disapproval as she passed, guessing that such beauty would only bring grief to Ilium, but after Priam had welcomed Helen no one would dare voice their opposition to her. And the whole city had come out to cheer the wedding procession that morning, dressed in their finest clothing and with baskets of flowers on their arms, ready to cast on the road before the feet of the newly married couple.

Helen smiled to herself at the memory. She still wore her wedding dress – a long white garment in the Trojan style – and as she ran her hands down it the light material felt smooth and rich beneath her fingertips. The delicate blooms that Andromache and Leothoë had woven into her hair remained fresh and bright, and she almost regretted the knowledge that they would be removed before she and Paris were alone later. But she also knew that Andromache and Leothoë had prepared something special for her wedding night: a dress made from layers of gossamer that could be removed one at a time to tease out Paris’s passions; and a blend of perfumes that they promised would keep her husband attentive until dawn. Trojan women, it seemed, had a gift for lovemaking. Their knowledge of how to please a man in bed stunned Helen, and her new friends were not timid when giving her their advice. All day long, even during the solemn religious ceremony that had formalized her union with Paris, her thoughts had returned repeatedly to the night ahead and the new ways in which she would stimulate Paris’s passion.

Though the quietly spoken Leothoë had shown nothing but kindness and love to Helen, she also had duties within the palace and was a wife to the king, so was often away performing her various tasks. Andromache, on the other hand, was a visitor and a newcomer to Troy, and she and Helen were able to spend most of every day together, quickly becoming good friends as they explored the city or ventured out on to the plain and the surrounding countryside. Andromache helped Helen improve her use of the Trojan tongue – something that little Pleisthenes was picking up rapidly in the company of Priam’s many grandchildren and their nurses – and together the two women would talk about their lives, past and present, and their hopes for the future.

Helen’s hopes were already being translated into reality. She could not recall a happier time. When Paris was with her, mostly in the evenings, she felt the joy of a love she had never experienced before; and when he was busy with affairs of state in a city now preparing for siege, Helen enjoyed a freedom she had not known since childhood. She was no longer constrained by the strict palace life of Sparta, and while she missed her three other children there was much to distract her from her unresolved grief. There was the much talked about threat of war looming over Ilium, yet Helen was hopeful it would never happen. Even if Menelaus and his brother could muster a strong enough force to attack Troy, they would be too afraid to leave their own cities unprotected in a divided Greece. And, if against all her expectations they did come, Paris had given her his word on Tenedos that his fighting days were over. There were more than enough fighting men to deal with any Spartan and Mycenaean armies that dared set foot on Trojan soil, and Paris had already done more than his fair share of fighting in the service of his country.

As for Andromache, she had but one hope – to marry Hector. They had known each other for many years through Hector’s close friendship with her brother, Podes, but Hector’s mind was always too bent on the advancement of Troy to be concerned with matters of love. Even though Andromache had finally persuaded her brother to take her to Troy, Hector had been so busy with matters of war that she had not even set eyes on him before Paris and Helen’s wedding, and then only briefly. But Helen could not tolerate the thought that her friend should not share in her happiness at being in love, so promised Andromache her help. She had already persuaded Paris that Hector needed children, and that Andromache would prove an ideal mother, and to that end Paris agreed to invite Hector to eat with him and his new wife the next night. Helen, of course, had already invited Andromache, and with a touch of her own blend of perfumes who knew what the result might be?

With such satisfying thoughts drifting through her mind, Helen had hardly noticed the sun sink below the horizon. A few fishing vessels bobbed up and down on the gentle waves in the wide bay into which the Scamander and the Simo¨eis flowed, but the mass of high-sided galleys that were there the first morning she had looked out from Troy’s walls were gone. Hector had stopped the building of further ships to concentrate instead on bolstering the city’s defences; the vessels that had already been built had been sent further up the coast to fetch the armies of some of Troy’s vassal cities, bringing them back to join the force that was being amassed under Hector’s command. The vast camp that had filled the northern quarter of the plain below had now moved to the eastern side of the city walls opposite the Dardanian Gate, where it was swelled every day by a constant stream of Troy’s allies. When Andromache’s countrymen, the Cilicians, had reached the city walls a few days before, Helen had joined her friend to cheer their arrival. The fact they were coming to fight Greeks and might die in a war brought about by her arrival concerned her a little, but she found the splendour of the military display – and the equal attention her own presence received – exhilarating.

A familiar squeal of laughter and the clacking of wood made her turn and look down into the palace gardens behind her. There was Pleisthenes, holding a wooden stick in his good hand and fighting against the combined forces of Aeneas and Deiphobus, who were similarly armed. Helen smiled, despite the fact that her son should have been with Antenor, who because of his ability to speak Greek had been asked to tutor the boy in the ways of his new homeland. Instead, Pleisthenes was driving the two young Trojans back before him, pursuing them around the rectangular pond and through several neatly pruned bushes before dispatching each of them with neatly placed thrusts of his sword.

‘At least he won’t have to worry about fighting when the war comes,’ said a voice, speaking in Greek.

Helen turned and the smile fell from her face. ‘Oh, it’s you, Apheidas,’ she said, taking a step backwards. ‘What are you doing up here?’

‘I’m here to inspect the guards,’ he answered, glancing at the men on the walls, whose eyes were no longer snatching sly glimpses of Helen but were fixed firmly on the darkening ocean beyond the mouth of the harbour. ‘I want them alert and watchful for the arrival of the Greek fleet.’

‘They’ll not come here,’ Helen said, trying to sound assured of the fact. ‘If you lived in Greece as you say, you’ll know that no king would dare send an army abroad and leave his home unprotected. Not with so many old grudges and scores to settle among the different states. If he did, he’d return home to find his kingdom lost and his family murdered.’

‘You shouldn’t overlook the power of your own beauty, Helen,’ Apheidas responded. ‘With a prize like you at stake, I’m only surprised they’ve not arrived already.’

She gave the Trojan captain a haughty look. ‘And if the war comes you’ll blame me for it, no doubt.’

‘Blame you? Not at all – I’ll be thanking you. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to kill Greeks and send them fleeing back to their rotten little country with their noses bloodied.’

Helen’s large eyes narrowed angrily. ‘And what about all the Trojans who will die? What of the widows and the orphans they will leave behind? Or do you think this phantom army of Greeks will just blow away like dandelion seeds in the wind? But I suppose you don’t have as much to lose as the rest of your countrymen, do you, Apheidas? You’ve no concept of what it means to lose your children.’

‘Oh, but you’re wrong there, my dear,’ Apheidas said, arching his eyebrows and smiling. He turned and leaned on the wall, looking out towards the faint blue humps of Tenedos in the distance. ‘I had three lads, all of them killed in battle.’

Helen took a step towards him, shocked by the revelation.

‘But that’s terrible!’

‘Even more terrible because I drove them to it,’ Apheidas added, staring into her perfect face. ‘When a man reaches my age, Helen, he can look back over his life, consider his mistakes and regret them. And I wish to Zeus I hadn’t encouraged their fighting spirit – especially the youngest one – but I did and now I must live with that.’

Helen looked at the tall, dark-haired warrior with his reputation for ruthlessness and aggression, and for a fleeting moment saw the remorse and sorrow that weighed heavily on his shoulders. He seemed to lean against the crenellated battlements for support, and his eyes were old and tired. Then he drew himself up to his full height again and the image was gone. He was Apheidas once more: stern and authoritative; a captain feared by his men and his superiors alike.

‘The Greeks will come, Helen,’ he told her. ‘Don’t deceive yourself about that. And don’t believe Paris if he says he will not fight again. He’s hinted as much to the rest of us, but when war threatens he’ll be out there in the front rank alongside myself and Hector.’

‘He promised me,’ Helen said defiantly. ‘On Tenedos.’

‘When he was next to you in bed, no doubt,’ Apheidas laughed as he turned to continue his inspection. ‘But I know him better than you do. You’ve come here expecting to find love and freedom, Helen, but the reality will be war and death. Enjoy your wedding night.’

The Greek fleet lifted its anchor stones before the first light of dawn crept into the sky. The sprawling camp that had dominated the landscape for weeks was gone, leaving behind a vast swathe of crushed yellow grass sprinkled with broken pottery, animal bones and other waste of no further use. The thousands of warriors who had occupied it now manned the oars that sent twelve hundred ships gliding slowly towards the freedom of the open seas. For a while the only sounds were the gentle creaking of leather and the swish of oars, punctuated by occasional shouts of command. Then, from a bank of dark cloud that lingered over the mainland like a bad memory of the storm just gone, a single fork of lightning seared down to strike the distant mountaintops. A deep rumble of thunder followed, and for an awful moment the Greeks feared the storm was returning. But when there were no more flashes of lightning, one by one the ships’ crews began to cheer, until the whole strait was filled with the echo of their voices. Every man knew that lightning striking to the right was a good omen from Zeus. The king of the gods had spoken, and told them they were sailing to victory.

As each galley passed through the narrow bottleneck between Euboea and the mainland, into the wide triangle of water beyond, the cheering fell away and was replaced by a flurry of activity as sails were unfurled and rigging adjusted to catch the strong westerly breeze. From there the ships rounded the southern tip of Euboea and headed directly east.

In debating the best route, many of the Greek leaders had advised following the southerly line of the Cyclades to the coast of Asia, then heading north to Ilium – the same way by which Odysseus’s ship had returned from Troy. Though it would be slow, the many bays and coves along the way would provide shelter for the fragile galleys if the weather turned rough. Agamemnon, however, had decided they should head directly east to Chios, then turn north to Lesbos and on to Tenedos, where the fleet would reassemble before the attack. It was a more dangerous route but it was quicker by several days, and Agamemnon was desperate not to waste any more time in reaching Troy.

Another problem was the cohesion of the vast fleet. From the moment they left the Euboean Straits, passing one by one into the Aegean, they would become strung out. Rather than a broad armada, they would inevitably stretch out into a long line where the difference between the first and the last ship could be a matter of days. Anticipating the possibility that some ships, or even whole divisions, could get lost as they navigated the unfamiliar seas between Greece and Ilium, Agamemnon had made certain that the chief pilots of each nation were well versed in the correct route. But he was more concerned that a sizeable portion of the fleet should be ready to attack Troy as quickly as possible, and offered prizes to the first four kings to bring their ships to Tenedos. The winner would receive three large, newly made cauldrons with their bronze tripods, as well as a dozen talents of copper; to the second would be given a pair of unbroken five-year-old mares; the third would have a single large cauldron with its tripod and five talents of copper; the fourth-placed king would receive a small, two-handled bowl made of gold traced with skilful designs. And, of course, there would be the glory of victory.

Agamemnon’s ploy worked. The natural competitiveness of the Greeks had been ignited and every morning the ships’ crews would rise early, ready to sail as soon as there was light enough to see by. Then they would forge across the white-tipped waves of the Aegean in a series of individual races. Like charioteers with teams of horses, each king drove his ships to gain on the king before him and shake off the one behind, taking perilous chances as the fleets passed through each other in order to gain the edge that might lead to victory. Eventually, after several days, the forerunners passed Lesbos and picked up the line of the Asian seaboard, with the low, humped form of Tenedos on the horizon ahead of them.

Achilles’s lust for glory had pushed his fifty ships into a narrow lead ahead of the nine ships of the Malians, under Philoctetes; behind them were the dozen vessels from Ithaca. No other ships were yet in sight, but as the skilled sailors under Odysseus’s command began to gain on the leaders, the king gave instructions for a slackening of speed.

‘But we can catch them,’ Eurybates protested from the nearest bench. ‘Achilles’s ships are getting in each others’ way, and hindering Philoctetes too. We can slip past them on their seaward side and be the first to arrive.’

‘But I don’t want to be the first to Tenedos,’ Odysseus replied as he held on to the twin rudders and watched the fierce race between Achilles and Philoctetes. Those within earshot turned to look at him in astonishment.

‘What about the prize?’ asked Eperitus. ‘You can’t just give up on a dozen talents of copper and three cauldrons, and we’ll have shown everyone we’re the best sailors in Greece.’

There were murmurs of agreement from the benches, but Odysseus held up his hand for silence. ‘Prizes and glory are one thing,’ he said, ‘but they’re no good if we’re not alive to enjoy them. Don’t forget Tenedos is a vassal state of Troy and the first to arrive will probably be greeted with a shower of arrows – or worse. And I wouldn’t want to steal Achilles’s laurels, either. Philoctetes can be the first to Tenedos if he wants, but if he incurs the wrath of Achilles then he’ll only have himself to blame.’

The benches fell silent again as the sailors looked beyond the white-capped waves to the jumble of sails that marked the battle between Achilles and Philoctetes. They knew they could overhaul the mingled ships ahead of them, and despite the wisdom of Odysseus’s words they could not help but feel disappointed.

‘I don’t see why we should hang back,’ said Eurybates, crouching beside Eperitus and looking up at the wind filling the sail. ‘If there’s a battle waiting for us on Tenedos, we should be the first into the fight. The sooner we start the killing, the fewer of those Trojan vermin there’ll be in the world.’

Eperitus grunted and turned to watch the race between Achilles and Philoctetes, in which the Malians were already beginning to squeeze through the widely spread ranks of the Myrmidons. Tenedos was soon close enough for the individual trees and buildings to be seen on its steep green sides. They were heading for the western edge of the island where the fleet was to reassemble out of sight of the mainland, but whereas on his previous journey past the eastern flanks there had been nothing more than a few farms and vineyards, now Eperitus could see a wide, natural harbour opening before them. A handful of colourful fishing boats were pulled up on the crescent-shaped beach, while part-way up the hillside was a collection of stone dwellings gathered around a single-storey palace. The small town was reached by a ramp that wound its way up the steep cliff face from the harbour.

All around him now the Ithacans were standing on the benches or leaning perilously far over the sides of the galley, cheering loudly as the race between the ships of Achilles and Philoctetes rushed to its climax beneath the cliffs of Tenedos. Clearly, the Malian archer did not have Odysseus’s foresight: by a miracle of seamanship his galleys had driven through the Myrmidons to gain a clear lead. Only Achilles’s own ship lay ahead of Philoctetes now, as the two men vied to be the first to reach the rapidly approaching harbour. Then they were lost from sight behind the mass of pursuing craft and it was impossible to tell who had won the race.

The cheers died away and the Ithacans returned to their places, where they debated noisily about whether Achilles or Philoctetes had gained the victory. Before long, though, they were under the shadow of the island and approaching the lines of Malian and Myrmidon ships in the mouth of the harbour. Most had already lowered their sails and dropped their anchor stones overboard, and their grinning crews met the Ithacan latecomers with a mixed chorus of cheers and heckling. Odysseus signalled to the others to throw out their anchor stones, then steered his own vessel through the mass of warships towards the harbour.

A score of galleys were already crammed into the modest bay, where their crews were being ferried in small boats to the shore. The ships of Achilles and Philoctetes, though, had ploughed straight into the pebbled beach in their headlong dash to claim victory. Their tall prows were stuck fast between great banks of shingle and the deck of Philoctetes’s ship was covered in a mass of canvas and rigging, where the impact of hitting the beach had snapped the top half of the mast. The crews had spilled out on the beach and were arguing vociferously with each other, their voices a great babble as the Ithacan galley approached.

Odysseus ordered the sail to be furled and the anchor stones to be tossed overboard.

‘And ready the boat,’ he added as he spotted Achilles and Philoctetes at the centre of the crowd of warriors. ‘Eperitus – fetch Antiphus and Polites and come with me. We’d better go and sort this argument out before they come to blows.’

As they reached the shore, Achilles was scowling fiercely and poking Philoctetes’s chest with his forefinger. Patroclus stood behind his companion with his habitual sneer on his face, his hand gripping the pommel of his sheathed sword. Showing no sign of intimidation, Philoctetes stood with his legs planted firmly apart in the shingle and his fists thrust on his hips. The bow of Heracles was slung across his back and a quiver was at his side, but he made no sign of reaching for them.

‘Concede!’ Achilles demanded. ‘My galley was the first to hit the beach. There’s no doubt about it.’

‘Not from where I was standing,’ Philoctetes replied. ‘Besides, you can’t deny I was the first to jump onto the shingle. My feet touched Tenedos before yours did.’

‘Nonsense!’ Achilles shouted, giving the Malian prince a hard push on the shoulder. ‘I was the first out. You were still in the prow of your ship when . . .’

Mnemon, who had been standing behind Patroclus and looking nervously about at the towering cliffs, now reached across and tapped his master’s arm. ‘Sir,’ he said, wracked with anxiety. ‘Sir, I must tell you something.’

‘Damn it, Mnemon!’ Achilles snapped. ‘Can’t you see I’m talking?’

‘Is there anything I can help with?’ Odysseus asked, walking up the shingle towards the crowd of men.

‘Yes! You can tell this fool that I won the race fairly and that the first prize goes to me and my Malians,’ Philoctetes said, crossing his arms and glaring at Achilles.

On seeing Odysseus, Achilles immediately walked forward and took his hand. ‘Thank the gods you’re here, Odysseus. We need a man of intelligence to make this idiot understand the difference between winning and coming second.’

‘My lord!’ Mnemon interjected again. ‘Please, I must tell you something.’

‘By all the gods on Olympus,’ Achilles barked. ‘What is it, man?’

But Mnemon did not get the opportunity to speak. Suddenly there was a shout from the top of the cliff followed a moment later by a shower of arrows and stones. Men screamed out as bronze-tipped shafts tore into their flesh, killing several instantly while others crumpled silently into the shingle, felled by falling rocks. Mnemon was one of these: he was struck on the forehead and slumped to the floor unconscious.

The Greeks stared around themselves in shock, then all looked up as a booming voice shouted down to them in a language none of them understood. A huge, bearded man stood on the cliff top, surrounded by a collection of archers and spearmen, many of whom wore leather helmets and carried rectangular shields made of oxhide. His bare chest was broad and covered in black hair, and above his head – held easily by his thickly muscled arms – was a boulder the size of a young heifer. With a final challenge on his lips, he hurled the stone down towards the startled soldiers below, crushing three of them instantly.

Pandemonium ensued. Soldiers scattered in every direction, looking for cover on the empty beach from the downpour of arrows. More men fell screaming; those that did not die instantly clawed at the shingle in a desperate effort to drag themselves away; some pulled the bodies of dead comrades on top of themselves to act as shields. Only Achilles and Patroclus remained where they stood, contemptuous of the danger all about them. Then, as arrows smacked into the pebbles at their feet, the prince drew the sword from his belt and held it above his head. Turning to the men about him, he gave a deafening cry of defiance that rang back from the cliff face and echoed across the harbour.

‘Come on!’ he shouted, and with a look of terrifying anger and joy in his eyes he sprang across the dead and mangled bodies of his comrades and ran to the foot of the ramp.

In an instant, the fear and panic that had infected the Myrmidons disappeared. As one, they drew the swords from their scabbards and the air was filled with the sound of scraping metal. Then, with Patroclus at their head, they sprinted after their leader. An enthusiastic roar rose from their throats as they charged up the ramp that had been cut out of the cliff face, heedless of the new waves of arrows and stones that poured death on them from above.

‘Zeus’s beard,’ said Odysseus, crouching down beside his comrades. ‘What are we waiting for?’

He tugged his sword from its scabbard and dashed forward, followed by Eperitus, Antiphus and the giant figure of Polites. As they crossed the beach, quickly joined by Philoctetes and his Malians, a great shadow passed over them. They turned briefly to see a second gigantic boulder come spinning down from the cliff top to land on the prow of Philoctetes’s ship with a loud crash of splintering wood.

Without further hesitation, they coursed up the steep ramp shouting loudly in a mixture of exhilaration, anger and fear. Eperitus felt his muscles come alive with a sudden rush of energy as he caught up with his king at the first bend. Together they ran to catch up with the press of Myrmidons ahead of them, passing the fallen and wounded on the way. Despite the whistle of arrows and the thump of falling rocks all around, Eperitus’s spirit was filled with the joyous anticipation of battle. There was nothing like the danger of death and the thrill of facing an armed opponent to make a man feel alive and aware of his own mortality. No other experience could match the marvel of short moments of time stretched out by the sharpening of the senses, the realization of tiny details amidst a blur of movement and sound as each man fought to take the other’s life. He clutched the handle of his sword tighter and grinned at the thought that this was how Iphigenia had always imagined him: charging fearlessly into battle, driven by his lust for glory.

They took the next bend in the climbing road just as a Myrmidon soldier came hurtling down from the cliff above, his bronze sword clanging as it fell from his dead hand. Eperitus stooped and snatched it up as he ran. An arrow tugged at the hem of his cloak and hung there, its barbs snagged in the densely woven wool. Beside him, Odysseus narrowly dodged the fall of a large rock, but together they ran on. Then they heard the twang of a bowstring and a moment later a man fell screaming from the cliff top. He soared over the heads of the Greeks and did not stop until his body slammed into the shingle below.

Eperitus looked back and saw that Philoctetes had drawn his bow and was aiming a second arrow skywards. He released it and another body came crashing down to land beside the dead Myrmidon.

‘Damn it, I wish I’d thought to bring my bow,’ hissed Antiphus. ‘Have you seen the way he’s just plucking them off the top of the cliff like tethered doves?’

As he spoke there was a great shout followed by the clashing of metal, signalling that the Myrmidons had reached the top of the cliff. At the same time the relentless shower of missiles from above petered out, and with a shout of defiance Odysseus and Eperitus led the way up the last two angles of the ramp to join the battle.

Already a line of dead bodies showed where Achilles’s men had pushed their enemies back. Though greatly outnumbered and armed only with swords – their shields and spears were still onboard their ships – they had smashed through the first rank of spearman and were now hacking and stabbing ferociously as the men of Tenedos fell back before them. For the first time, Eperitus spotted his friend Peisandros amongst them, fighting like a lion as he shouted encouragement to the men around him. Yells of triumph mingled with the despairing screams of dying men as black-clad Myrmidons trod on the bodies of the fallen, desperate to come to grips with their opponents. At their centre, beads of gore flicking from his blade as he scythed it repeatedly through the terrified ranks, was Achilles. And though a great press of spears and swords were aimed at him, he drove forward with unquenchable aggression, laughing aloud for the pure joy of battle as he swatted aside his enemies’ attempts to resist him. At his side was Patroclus, defending his companion’s left side with precise thrusts of his long sword, finding throats, hearts and stomachs with unerring accuracy.

And yet the Myrmidons were but a handful – three score at the most – against more than a hundred men led by the fearsome giant who had hurled boulders down from the cliff top. Seeing this, the Ithacans threw themselves into the midst of the melee with the Malians close on their heels, while Philoctetes leapt on top of an outcrop of rock and began sending arrows into the massed defenders.

Odysseus was the first of the Ithacans to strike, slipping inside the thrust of a spear and pushing his sword into his assailant’s heart. Ripping the shield from the man’s grip, he stepped across his body and hacked at the point of another spear, cutting the shaft in half and then bringing the edge of his blade back up across the face of the enemy soldier. The man stumbled backwards, his fingers clutching at the furrow that had been opened through his nose and cheekbones.

Gripping both swords, Eperitus charged into the gap created by his king and stood on a pile of bodies, slashing with determined force at the hedge of spear-points before him. He knocked them aside with ease and leapt down to run the point of one sword into the stomach of a young spearman, while with the other he chopped through the wrist of a man who had lunged at him with an axe. Without pausing to finish him off, he bore forward into the crowd of soldiers, quickly sending another to his death with a stab through the throat. Glancing to his right, he saw Polites crash into the enemy ranks and begin tossing men about like young trees caught in a hurricane. It was clear to Eperitus from the clumsy, inexperienced efforts of the islanders that they were little more than a poorly trained militia, bolstered by townsfolk armed with improvised weapons. The only thing that stopped them from breaking and running was their greater fear of the bearded giant who stood at their rear.

At that moment, he bellowed an order and with relief in their eyes the defenders pulled back to form a new line behind him. The Greeks allowed them to retreat, using the lull in battle to arm themselves with the shields and spears of the fallen. Only Achilles refrained. He could see that the enemy commander wore no armour and carried only a club of colossal proportions, so to have picked up a shield would have seemed cowardly to his proud eyes. Then the man’s broad, flat face split into a mocking smile and with a slow gesture of his shovel-sized hand he beckoned Achilles forward. With his sword hanging loosely at his side, the Phthian prince picked his way across the carpet of bodies to meet the challenge.

‘Stand aside, Achilles,’ Philoctetes called from the rock where he was standing. ‘I can take him with one shot and the battle will be over.’

‘And let you try to claim another victory you haven’t earned?’ Achilles scoffed without taking his eyes off his opponent. ‘I give you my word, Philoctetes – if he falls to one of your arrows I’ll make sure you’re the next to die.’

‘No, my lord,’ cried another voice. ‘You must let Philoctetes kill him.’

Achilles turned to see Mnemon stumbling up to the top of the ramp, clutching his wounded head, but at the same moment a warning shout from Eperitus made him leap aside. An instant later the gigantic club swept down on the spot where Achilles had been standing, splitting the sun-baked earth and sending up a haze of dust. Achilles was quick to launch himself at his opponent, knowing he would not be able to lift the heavy club in time. The enemy champion released the weapon and met Achilles’s attack with his fist, punching him in the face and sending him flying backwards to land among the pile of slain warriors. With a speed that belied his size, he stooped down to pick up his club and stumped forward, intending to crush his enemy’s head with a single blow.

The giant’s punch would have killed many men outright, but Achilles quickly regained his senses and rolled aside as the great wooden club thumped down into the heaped bodies, breaking bones like kindling. He sprang to his feet and rushed with terrifying speed at the enemy champion. His lips were pulled back in a hate-filled sneer – his brain barely registering the shouts of Mnemon in the background – but as he lunged with the point of his sword his target moved swiftly aside and swung his club round to cleave the air above Achilles’s head. Achilles ducked and edged backwards, and at the same moment he heard Mnemon shouting.

‘Don’t, my lord. That’s King Tenes. Don’t kill him!’

The giant warrior, hearing his own name called, glanced towards the injured Mnemon. Seeing his opportunity, Achilles rushed forward and kicked the club out of his hand, then with a swift jab sank the point of his sword into the huge, hair-covered chest, piercing the heart. Tenes was only able to gasp with surprise, before collapsing backwards with a thud that shook the ground and sent a cloud of dust into the air.

As the mass of defenders gasped in shock, Achilles walked over to their fallen king and placed a foot on his chest, leaning forward to study his victim in more detail. Then he turned his gaze on the men of Tenedos, who were eyeing him in terror and disbelief.

‘Boo!’ he shouted, and they flung down their weapons and ran back into the town.

‘Sir,’ said Mnemon, his voice shaking as he dragged himself toward ss his master. ‘Sir, I tried to warn you.’

Achilles looked at his servant, then around at the faces of his countrymen, mingled with the Ithacans and the unfamiliar men of Malia. Though the Malians were looking at him in amazement and awe, the Myrmidons were grim-faced and seemed somehow unhappy at their prince’s victory.

‘What is it, Mnemon?’ he sighed, irritated by the persistence of his servant in his moment of triumph.

Mnemon wrung his hands together and hesitated for a long while before speaking. ‘Sir, you’ve just killed King Tenes, a son of Apollo. By your mother’s prophecy, you’re now doomed to die at the hand of the god.’

Achilles stood and looked down at the stooping man before him. He took a deep breath, as if trying to contain his emotions, then drew back his sword.

‘Then I won’t be needing you any more, will I?’ he said, and swept his servant’s head from his shoulders.

Chapter Thirty

PHILOCTETES

Eperitus looked over the cliff edge at the massed ships of the fleet. Almost three quarters of the galleys that had left Aulis two weeks before were now gathered on the western side of Tenedos – their numbers constantly swelled by the piecemeal arrival of more stragglers – and a great traffic of small boats was weaving its way between them, ferrying men to and from the beach below the palace of King Tenes. Further out to the west, Eperitus could see the distant bulk of Lemnos, wide and blue in the bright sunshine, while slightly closer to the north-west was the island of Imbros. It was an unfamiliar seascape, but seemed pleasant enough under the blue skies of late summer.

He turned to the plateau where the battle had taken place. The town and palace beyond it were crawling with soldiers of almost every Greek state, scouring the buildings for any remaining loot or food that they could find. On the green slopes above the plateau were a large number of people – townsfolk and captured warriors – sitting and watching the pillaging of their homes as a dozen Myrmidons stood guard. Though their town had not been put to the torch, as was common in war, this was only because Nestor had ordered that its buildings be preserved for the wounded from the impending assault on Troy.

To one side of the plateau, three large mounds of rocks had been built. The largest marked the grave of the many enemies slain in the battle; a smaller one next to it covered the bodies of the Myrmidons and Malians who had died. The final mound had been built by Achilles himself in honour of King Tenes. It was a tribute to the giant warrior’s ferocity in battle, but even more than that, of course, it was a testament to Achilles’s own skill in defeating him.

Standing before the three mounds was a stone plinth, as high as a man’s stomach and as wide as he could stretch his arms. It had been dragged from a crude temple in the town to act as an altar, where the Greeks could sacrifice to the gods in thanks for their safe arrival at Tenedos and their first victory over the forces of Asia. The air around it was full of the sounds and smells of animals. Scores of sheep and goats were held fast by slaves and soldiers, while bowls of water were placed before them. Only the animals who bowed their heads to drink could be killed, as they were deemed to have nodded their consent to the sacrifice. Elsewhere, knives were being sharpened on whetstones and a large fire was being lit, where the fat-wrapped thighbones of the slain beasts could be burnt for the gods. Odysseus stood beside Eperitus with a black lamb across his shoulders, its ankles tied with leather cord to keep it from struggling.

‘Have you seen Agamemnon?’ Achilles said, appearing before them. Patroclus was at his shoulder, a goat held fast beneath his arm.

‘Come on now, Achilles,’ said Odysseus, giving the prince a friendly slap on the shoulder. ‘Agamemnon has made his judgement and you won’t persuade him to change his mind.’

‘He will as soon as I can make him listen to reason.’

‘He judged Philoctetes the winner because the last Malian ship reached Tenedos before the last Myrmidon ship. If he changes his mind now the army will think he’s indecisive, and with all the trouble he’s had since the sacrifice . . .’ Odysseus paused and looked briefly at Eperitus, who said nothing. ‘With all the trouble he’s had he won’t want to weaken his authority any more. If you ask me, Achilles, he’s trying to avoid you at the moment and will make his own sacrifices later. Right now he’s with Nestor and Menelaus on his galley.’

Looking unconvinced, Achilles gave a snort of frustration and scanned the crowd for the King of Men. Eperitus, who had been supervising the removal of the altar as the Mycenaean fleet had arrived, had not been present when Agamemnon had declared Philoctetes the winner of the race. Odysseus, however, had already told him of the shocked silence with which Achilles had greeted the judgement, before turning on his heel and leading his Myrmidons back up the cliff face to continue building his monument to Tenes. Clearly, he had since reconsidered his moody silence and had returned with the intention of debating the matter in full with Agamemnon. But as his eyes scoured the crowds, they fell on Philoctetes and narrowed into a cruel squint.

‘Well, there’s not much I can do about Agamemnon – not for a while, at least – but I don’t intend to let that braggart get away with cheating.’

‘Leave him be, Achilles,’ Eperitus cautioned. ‘Agamemnon won’t allow murder.’

‘And you think he could stop me, if I had a mind to kill Philoctetes?’ Achilles retorted. Then the dark look in his eyes was swept away with a laugh and he threw his arm about Eperitus’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, my friend. I’m not so stupid as to cause a big stir. After all, I want this war to happen more than anyone, even if it means my death. No, when your mother’s a goddess there are other ways of getting what you want. This goat,’ he said, stroking the nose of the animal beneath Patroclus’s arm, ‘is for her, and in return I’m going to ask her to deal with that puffed-up Malian.’

He gave a wink, then turned and strode with Patroclus towards the altar. Patroclus threw the goat onto the stone slab and handed his friend a curved dagger from his belt. Raising the blade above his head, Achilles pointed it heavenwards and called on the name of his mother, the sea-nymph Thetis, who spent half her time on land and the other half in the depths of the sea.

‘A dangerous man to have as an enemy,’ Odysseus said, leaning close to Eperitus and talking in a hushed voice. ‘Too proud by far. It’ll be his downfall in the end.’

‘Or ours,’ Eperitus added sombrely.

Achilles leaned forward and grasped the horns of the goat, pulling its head back and running the dagger across its exposed throat. The animal kicked briefly against the cords that bound its ankles, then its crimson blood gushed out over Achilles’s hands and its head dropped limp and lifeless at the side of the altar. The prince threw his face upwards and lifted his gore-spattered hands to the heavens, clenching them into angry fists. The men about him turned and watched as the young warrior seemed to shake with emotion. To their surprise there were tears rolling freely down his handsome face.

‘Mother! Why do you allow me to be humiliated in this way? Am I not your only son, your only joy in the world of mortals? Do you wish me to be robbed of my dues by cheats and petty schemers? Then give me vengeance – if I am to be denied the glory of victory, then let the reward of him who has stolen it from me be a bitter one.’

He held his fists above his head for a moment longer, then let them fall to his sides as he bowed his head and closed his eyes. Eperitus, who had watched the sacrifice with distaste, looked across at Philoctetes, standing alone with the great bow across his back. All other eyes turned to the famous archer, who had been nothing more than a lowly shepherd before the dying Heracles had bestowed his bow and arrows on him. Many of the Greek leaders despised the presence of a man who had only joined their ranks because of a freak chance, and it seemed to Eperitus that some would have been pleased to see Achilles kill him there and then. Chief among them was Patroclus, who had not forgotten Philoctetes’s accusation in the woods overlooking Aulis. Eperitus doubted he had informed Achilles of what Philoctetes had said – or the Malian would surely have been dead by now – but he wondered whether he was not quietly encouraging his animosity towards the young archer.

There was a look of disquiet on Philoctetes’s face, but he said nothing. Instead he accepted a lamb from the arms of Medon, who was next in rank to Philoctetes among the Malians, and strode over to the altar. Taking a bowl of water from beside the base of the plinth, he washed away the gore where Achilles’s goat had been then carried out his own sacrifice. As he slashed the lamb’s throat and held up his arms in a hushed, modest prayer of thanks to Athena, there was a hiss and a sudden movement by his feet.

‘Philoctetes!’ Odysseus shouted, seeing a thin brown water snake appear from the long grass at the base of the altar.

The archer looked down to where he was pointing, but too late. The snake shot forward, biting him on the top of the foot. He cried out, his face suddenly contorted with terrible pain, and clutched at the bloodstained plinth for support. The serpent fled through the long grass towards Eperitus, who with a shudder of loathing unsheathed his sword and cut it in half. At the same moment, Philoctetes fell back into the grass.

‘Suck out the venom!’ he shouted, clutching at his foot and screaming with pain. ‘In the name of the gods, suck it out!’

Palamedes, who was standing nearby, knelt down and took hold of his heel, but before he could lift it to his lips Achilles stepped forward and knocked him aside. There was a sly grin on his face as he turned and faced the crowd of shocked Greeks.

‘That’s not the way to deal with snake bites,’ he declared. ‘They need proper care. Where are Machaon and Podaleirius, the healers? They’ll know what to do.’

‘Their ships haven’t arrived yet, and you know it,’ said Menestheus, the Athenian king, frowning with anxiety at the terrible cries that were filling the air. ‘Let Palamedes suck out the venom before it’s too late.’

But Achilles refused to allow anyone near the suffering archer, other than a pair of his own Myrmidons who dragged him to one side so that the sacrifices could continue. As Odysseus stepped up to the altar some time later, Philoctetes’s screams were still ringing out over the plateau, to be heard even by the men in the galleys below. Those leaders who had performed their sacrifices left quickly, driven away by the unbearable and undiminished noise of the archer’s shrieks. Even the crowd of captured islanders on the hillside above the town had begged to be moved to the opposite side of the ridge, where they would be further away from the terrible racket.

Despite their sympathy for the wounded man, Odysseus and Eperitus were eager to carry out the sacrifice and return to their ship. A council had been arranged for that evening to discuss the strategy for the assault on Troy, but they could not bear to be near Philoctetes any longer than necessary. Not only did his cries grate on the nerves of everyone who heard them, there was now a nauseous stench coming from the wound, filling the air all around him. It was so bad that not even Philoctetes’s own soldiers could remain at his side for long in the small copse where they had carried him. Indeed, following Odysseus’s example, every man who had yet to make his sacrifice had torn strips of cloth, dampened them in water and tied them over his face to filter out the stench.

Because of his heightened senses, Eperitus suffered more than anyone. He could almost feel the pain of each wailing cry and the reek of the wound seemed to fill every corner of his brain. So it was with great relief that he accompanied Odysseus to the altar and helped him to sacrifice the lamb to Athena. But as they hastened away from the plateau to the ramp that led down to the beach, someone staggered from the shade of the small copse and collapsed at the side of the road. It was Philoctetes.

‘Odysseus,’ he pleaded, stretching out his arm towards the Ithacan king.

Odysseus removed the strip of cloth from his face and ran over to kneel at the archer’s side.

‘What is it, Philoctetes?’

‘Odysseus, promise me you won’t let Achilles kill me. He and Patroclus won’t be satisfied until I’m dead, but I’ve a part to play in this war yet, I know it. Give me your word.’

‘You have it, my friend,’ Odysseus replied, his voice strained as he tried not to gag on the awful stench. ‘I’ll do whatever I can.’

The council of war was held on the beach below the palace. A double circle of benches had been set out in the shingle and around the perimeter was a ring of torches, flames twisting and flickering vigorously in the breeze from the sea. The foam-edged waves crashed repeatedly against the shoreline and the night air was filled with the voices of the Greek leaders and their captains as they arrived, talking at an exaggerated volume in an attempt to drown out the constant groans from the top of the cliff. There were slaves aplenty, rushing here and there with wine and food, and a large force of Agamemnon’s bodyguard stood on watch all around.

Eventually only one place remained to be filled – a single, high-backed chair positioned at the western edge of the circle. This had been reserved for Agamemnon, who appeared at last, striding confidently through a gap that had been left in the benches opposite, his blood-red cloak flowing behind him. He turned as he reached the chair and looked at the torch-lit faces. On his chest was the ornate breastplate given to him by King Cinyras, and in his hand he held the staff of authority that Hephaistos had made for Zeus long ago.

‘Let the council begin,’ he announced as his bodyguard formed a tighter ring around the outer edge of the circle. ‘Nestor, myself and others have discussed plans for the invasion of Ilium and the destruction of the city of Troy, and thereby the rescue of Helen, queen of Sparta. These plans are to be laid before the council now so that every man here will know his part in the coming attack and its aftermath. This is not a debate, though questions will be permitted. King Nestor?’

Nestor rose from the bench beside Agamemnon and took the staff from his hands. As he turned to address the council, Eperitus looked with hate-filled eyes towards the King of Men. It was the first time he had seen him since the day of the sacrifice, when he was bent in grief across the body of the innocent girl he had just slain. Then he had been wild-eyed and driven by evil intent, his courage bolstered by wine and his mind twisted with insanity. Now, though, the old Agamemnon seemed to have returned. His red cloak and white tunic were smooth and spotless, his long brown hair neatly combed and twisted into a tail behind his neck; his beard had been precisely clipped to the outline of his handsome, impassive face, and as he sat back in his throne-like chair he wore an air of confidence and unassailable power. Were it not for the dark circles around his eyes and the grey in his hair, he could have been the same self-assured, handsome king who had convened the council of war in Sparta a decade before.

He rested his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, the elbow of which was propped on the arm of his chair, and scanned the assembled kings with his cold blue eyes. Finally his gaze rested deliberately on Eperitus, and the two men looked at each other across the arena, Agamemnon hiding his dark thoughts behind a screen of impassivity and Eperitus barely able to conceal his distaste. Then Nestor stepped forward and raised his arms.

‘Friends,’ he began. ‘Brothers! We have amassed the greatest fleet in the history of man. Our ranks contain the fiercest warriors ever to fight in the same army. The shores of Ilium are within sight! And yet the Trojans sleep peacefully in their beds, dreaming of their women and the wealth they have in plentiful supply. But tomorrow . . .’ Nestor clenched his fist and stared with fiery eyes at them all. ‘But very soon we will turn their dreams into nightmares. Soon we will drive the prows of our ships onto their beaches and teach them all about the ferocity of Greek revenge. Their high towers will burn with Greek fire, and their blood will run in the streets. Their gold and women will belong to us, and Helen will be free!’

There was a huge roar from the benches and stamping of feet on the shingle. Nestor raised his hands for silence.

‘But battles and wars are not won by courage and skill alone. There must be a strategy, and the right tactics need to be employed. The Trojan army have to be drawn out from the comfort of their city walls and destroyed, or the swift war we desire will become a long siege. Several of us have spent many days discussing how . . .’

Nestor fell quiet and looked across at Achilles, who had risen from his bench and walked out into the centre of the circle.

‘Lord Achilles?’ Nestor asked.

Achilles bowed his head to the old man before continuing. ‘King Nestor, how can any of us be expected to listen to talk of strategy and tactics with that noise going on?’

He signalled with his thumb over his shoulder, and as if in answer a long, agonized wailing sailed out from the cliff top above. A murmur of agreement came from the benches.

‘Something must be done about Philoctetes,’ Achilles continued. ‘His constant moaning and the stench of his wound are becoming a concern to the men. We can endure it, if that’s what is required of us as leaders, but you can’t ask the army to put up with it. It’s already being said that this is a bad omen for the war, and you know how superstitious soldiers can be.’

‘And what do you suggest, my friend?’ Nestor responded. ‘As soon as Machaon and Podaleirius arrived I sent them to tend Philoctetes’s wound, but even they could do nothing for him. They tried every unguent and poultice known to their craft, without effect. In their opinion the snake that bit him must have been sent by a god, for the wound is unnaturally painful and resistant to healing. There’s nothing we can do, Achilles.’

‘Nothing?’ Achilles asked. He strode up to the old king and held his hand out for the staff, then turned to face the council. ‘Is there nothing we can do to put an end to this man’s terrible pain, as well as our own suffering from the noise of it? Nothing? I would suggest there is. If he were a horse or a favourite dog, we’d kill him.’

‘You cannot simply kill the man,’ said Agamemnon calmly. He remained sitting, but a single sweeping look from his cold eyes silenced the cacophony of competing voices that had erupted from the benches. ‘For one thing, the wound isn’t fatal: this would be no mercy killing, as if he had been struck down in the midst of battle and was soon to die. For another, we cannot begin this war by murdering a Greek, least of all the leader of a faction. Before long we would be at each others’ throats again, just like it used to be. And unless we remain united we will never be victorious against Troy.’

‘He may be a leader,’ called a voice from the benches, ‘but he’s not one of us. He’s not a noble.’

Shouts of agreement followed and Achilles, sensing he was gaining the support of a large part of the council, turned to Agamemnon.

‘It’s true – Philoctetes doesn’t have the blood of gods or kings in his veins. He was just a shepherd boy when Heracles awarded him his magical bow and arrows, and it’s only by that single chance that he has been given honour and power in his own country. By right, Medon should be leading the men of Malia, not Philoctetes. At least he is of noble birth.’

Achilles signalled to a short, burly warrior with leathery skin and a hardened look in his eye. Medon rose from his seat and looked about at the ring of faces.

‘Achilles has already spoken to me about this,’ he said in a low, hoarse voice, ‘and I’ve agreed to end Philoctetes’s misery and take command in his place.’

‘How noble of you, Medon,’ said Agamemnon sarcastically, this time rising from his seat and taking two steps forward. ‘But isn’t this more to do with your anger, Achilles, at losing the race to Tenedos? Because of your hurt pride, you would have an innocent man slaughtered like a dumb beast.’

Achilles’s hand flew to the pommel of his sword. ‘That’s a fine accusation to make,’ he retorted, his face red with anger, ‘when you only awarded the victory to Philoctetes because I tried to prevent the sacrifice of Iphigenia. And how can you accuse me of wanting to kill Philoctetes like a dumb beast when you murdered your own daughter in cold blood!’

Suddenly Agamemnon’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, tugging the blade free of its scabbard. Achilles’s own weapon was quick to meet it and, with a loud slither of metal, the razor sharp edges grated against each other. Then a third sword swept upwards and knocked them apart, and a moment later Eperitus placed himself between the two men.

‘Sheathe your weapons,’ he commanded. ‘Use your anger on the Trojans, my lords, not each other.’

Agamemnon was the first to step back, his cool exterior quickly reimposing itself.

‘Come, Achilles,’ he said. ‘Eperitus is right, there’s no profit in squabbling among ourselves.’

Achilles hesitated, then slid his sword back into his sheath. ‘And Philoctetes?’ he persisted, eyeing the King of Men with poorly disguised anger. ‘What are we to do about him?’

‘Send him to Lemnos,’ Odysseus suggested, rising from his bench. After the bitter exchange between Agamemnon and Achilles, the King of Ithaca’s deep voice seemed calm and reassuring, filled with wisdom and justice. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for him here, and as Achilles rightly suggests he’ll only be an annoyance to the men. But there’s no need to kill the poor wretch; he deserves compassion, not murder. Instead, we should leave him on Lemnos for now and return for him when the war is over. Medon can have his wish to lead the Malians, on the condition he and his men share their plunder with Philoctetes.’

There was a chorus of agreement from the benches. Odysseus looked directly at Achilles, who after a few moments nodded and handed the speaker’s staff back to Nestor. Though he had seemed determined to see Philoctetes dead, he was content with the lesser victory of having the archer marooned for the duration of the war. He returned to his bench and sat down.

Agamemnon also returned to his seat, but not before he had turned to Eperitus and given him a curt nod of thanks for his intervention. For his own part, Eperitus felt an uneasy mixture of loathing and satisfaction. He would rather have allowed Achilles’s proud anger to strike Agamemnon dead – a fitting end for an abhorrent man. But he was honour-bound to defend the King of Men, and a small corner of his mind took pleasure from the knowledge that Clytaemnestra’s revenge would be much more terrible than a swift thrust of Achilles’s sword.

He returned to his seat next to Odysseus as Nestor stepped back into the centre of the council. The golden staff gleamed in his hand, the jewels upon its head glittering in the torchlight.

‘Tomorrow, then, Odysseus will transport Philoctetes to Lemnos while we rest and gather our strength. A sizeable landing party will seize the bay a little further up the coast, as already planned, and anybody found there or on the hills about it will be killed or taken prisoner. All shipping passing the bay is to be captured and held. Every measure has to be taken to prevent news of our arrival reaching King Priam. Then, the morning after, we attack.’

‘Curse you, Odysseus,’ Philoctetes hissed from the prow of the ship, where he had been laid with his arms and legs bound. By now he was exhausted from the pain of his wound and a night without sleep, and his voice was hoarse and weary. ‘Curse Achilles. Curse Agamemnon. Curse all Ithacans. And curse this damnable wound. Oh, in the name of all the gods, won’t you please kill me?’

‘It’s just not right,’ said Antiphus as he pulled back on his oar. His voice was muffled by the damp strip of cloth he wore to filter out the worst of the stench; all the crew had them. ‘I’ve never seen such archery. I don’t care how much he complains or how bad he smells, that man could hit Priam in the eye if he was on the loftiest tower in all Ilium. We should be taking him to the war, not from it.’

But Antiphus had few sympathizers on the galley, whose crew had been forced to endure the obnoxious Philoctetes since before dawn that morning. They had spent the night listening to his screams of pain while he was on the cliff top on Tenedos, so to be confined with him on the claustrophobic deck of a ship had driven them almost beyond the limit of their endurance. Only the knowledge that they would soon be rid of him prevented them from throwing him overboard.

Odysseus ignored Antiphus and peered out through the thick mists, looking for rocks as he steered the galley into the lee of a promontory that thrust out from the eastern edge of the island. The sail had been furled and the crew were busy at the oars. The only sound was the trickle of water running off the oar blades and the occasional cawing of gulls in the air above. The sun was in the sky, but they could only sense its presence as a concentrated point of whiteness in the dense fog that enveloped everything.

‘This will do,’ Odysseus announced, catching a glimpse of a rocky shoreline to his right. ‘Throw out the anchor stones and make the boat ready.’

Two loud splashes followed, while on the benches an argument broke out between the oarsmen about who should fetch the boat. Clearly, no one wanted the job of rowing Philoctetes to shore.

‘Stop that bickering at once,’ Eperitus snapped. ‘Arceisius and Eurybates, get the boat ready; Eurylochus and Polites, bring Philoctetes – and be gentle with him. And you can fetch his bow and arrows, Antiphus.’

The boat was lowered into the water and the two oarsmen took their places with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Eurylochus shot a hateful glance at Eperitus as he moved with deliberate slowness to the prow, then stood by as the huge arms of Polites scooped Philoctetes up from the deck and carried him to the side. The rest of the crew turned away in disgust as he passed, pressing their damp face-cloths closer to their noses. Only Antiphus showed any enthusiasm, running to fetch the magnificent weapons that had once belonged to Heracles and handling them with reverence and admiration.

Once Polites had tenderly lowered the unhappy figure of Philoctetes into the small boat and clambered out again – seemingly ignorant of the string of curses that were directed at him – Odysseus and Eperitus stepped into the small, unsteady vessel and sat down. Antiphus begged to be allowed to join them, and it was with great relief and pleasure that Eurybates surrendered his place at the oars to him. Once Antiphus was aboard, they pushed off into the mist and rowed slowly towards the shore. All about them sharp black rocks poked out of the water and more than once they felt the bottom of the boat scraping across stone. Then they reached a low, flat shelf of rock pitted with little pools of water and criss-crossed with weathered cracks.

‘This will have to do,’ Odysseus said, moving to the front of the boat and leaping ashore.

Arceisius threw him a rope, which the king wound several times about a finger of stone before tying a knot in it. The others carried Philoctetes ashore and set him down, where he lay on his back and looked about at the cold, lonely surroundings.

‘You can’t leave me here,’ he protested. He winced against the attack of a fresh wave of pain, but mastered himself again and reached out to seize Odysseus’s ankle. ‘You’d have been better letting Achilles kill me in cold blood than leaving me to die on this inhospitable rock.’

But Odysseus stared down at the archer with impassive eyes. ‘I’m sorry Philoctetes,’ he said. ‘I’m simply carrying out the will of the council.’

‘But he’s right,’ Antiphus said, stepping out of the boat with the bow and quiver of arrows cradled in his arms. ‘We can’t just abandon him to his fate.’

‘May the gods bless you, friend,’ Philoctetes sighed, looking up at Antiphus.

‘We’ll come back for you when the war is over,’ Odysseus replied coldly.

‘But what about Philoctetes’s bow and arrows, my lord,’ Antiphus continued. ‘Troy won’t fall as easily as everybody seems to think, and before the end we might have need of these weapons.’

‘We have our orders,’ Odysseus insisted, reaching across and sliding one of the black-feathered arrows from the quiver. ‘But that doesn’t mean the bow of Heracles should remain idle.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Antiphus.

Odysseus twirled the arrow’s shaft between his fingers. ‘Can you imagine your natural skill combined with the magical accuracy of these arrows? If you took the weapons, Antiphus, you could become a great warrior in your own right. What do you think?’

‘No,’ Philoctetes objected. ‘Heracles gave them to me! You’ve no right to them, and I’ll need them to hunt food here – even if it’s just scrawny seagulls. You can’t take them from me.’

But Antiphus did not seem to be listening. He had slung the quiver over his shoulder and was testing how the bow felt in his skilled hands, drawing the string back to his cheek and aiming an imaginary arrow into the billowing fog. A distant look was in his eyes, as if he was seeing himself shoot down Priam and his sons in the midst of battle, single-handedly bringing victory over Troy and being rewarded with the lion’s share of the plunder. Then he sighed and lowered the bow.

‘I’ve never handled such a fine weapon,’ he said sadly. ‘It’s even better than the bow Iphitus gave you, my lord. But it’s not mine, and Philoctetes is right – without this to hunt food, he’ll starve. No, I can’t take it.’

He handed the weapons down to Philoctetes, who snatched them to himself greedily. Odysseus placed a hand on Antiphus’s shoulder and patted him gently.

‘I knew you wouldn’t take it,’ he said. ‘You’re honourable, just like Eperitus. And I’m sorry I tempted you, but now we must go.’

The Ithacans took the supplies from the small boat and laid them down next to the Malian archer, who watched every movement with spiteful eyes. Then another wave of pain swept through his body and he threw his head back in an anguished howl before collapsing on his side. The last man settled himself in the boat and the oars were thrust against the rock shelf, pushing the little vessel out into the dark waters.

‘Damn you all,’ Philoctetes whimpered, straining himself to speak through gritted teeth. ‘I pray to all the gods and the spirit of Heracles that you’ll need me before the end. You’ll be begging me to help you, and then I’ll laugh in your faces. Curse you, Odysseus! Curse all you Ithacans!’

Chapter Thirty-one

THE BEACHES OF ILIUM

Helen and Paris walked hand in hand along the shore, listening to the sound of the waves and the cry of the gulls overhead. A warm breeze blew in from the sea, though the morning sun was only a watery blur in the eastern sky, hidden behind the thin ceiling of cloud that stretched from horizon to horizon. To their right was the Trojan plain, ending in the high plateau from which the walls of Troy frowned towards the west. Ahead of them the shoreline was broken by the mouth of the Simo¨eis, while to their left a low, pale fog was seeping into the bay from the ocean, twisting its spectral fronds about the high-sided hulls of the Trojan fleet. Only yesterday the bay had been filled with activity as the sixty galleys disembarked the armies of several of Troy’s allies, but now the ships were almost deserted and their sails and spars had been lowered and stowed away.

Despite the warm breath of the sea, the foamy water was cool as it washed over Helen’s toes and soaked the hem of her long dress. It was a pleasant feeling, she thought; it made her feel alive and free, just as Paris’s hot, rough hand in hers made her feel safe and loved. She turned her head slightly to look at him from the corner of her eye, only to find him doing the same.

He smiled. ‘What is it? Having regrets about marrying such an ugly man?’

‘Of course not,’ she replied with a slight frown. ‘Anyway, you aren’t ugly.’

‘Oh no? Since when have flat noses and livid pink scars been considered handsome?’

Helen raised an eyebrow and her mouth twitched sideways into a little grin.

‘I like your face – isn’t that enough?’ she asked, touching the bridge of his nose where the scar crossed it. ‘It has character. Those young men who gaze at me in the streets of Troy may be good-looking, but they’re just boys. These lines and scars you bear show you’re a man.’

‘Menelaus was no mere boy,’ Paris countered.

‘Ah, but you forget I was awarded to Menelaus like a prize. He didn’t steal me from a heavily guarded palace as you did. You risked everything for me, Paris, and no woman could want more than that.’

Paris smiled at her praise, which he knew was heartfelt, but he had not finished teasing her yet. ‘And how will you feel about him when he brings an army of Greeks to Ilium, just to rescue you?’

‘Don’t joke about such things,’ Helen said, facing her new husband with a troubled look in her eye. After a moment she looked away. ‘Fortunately for us, I doubt the Greeks will bother these shores for my sake. I hope they’ll have forgotten all about me in a year or two.’

‘Hector will be disappointed,’ Paris said. ‘He was starting to think a Greek attack might be the answer to his prayers – expend the might of Sparta and possibly Mycenae against our impenetrable walls, then send a Trojan army across the Aegean to claim the Atreides brothers’ kingdoms for himself.’

‘Your brother,’ Helen sighed, putting her arms about Paris’s waist and pulling his firm body against hers. ‘He reminds me so much of Agamemnon. Take last night, for example: a head full of your most potent wine, seated next to Andromache in that beautiful dress . . .’

‘With that perfume,’ Paris added.

Helen nodded enthusiastically. ‘And all he can talk about is the threat of Greek expansion across the Aegean, bringing their foreign gods and – don’t be offended, sister – their uncouth ways to our shores.’

Paris laughed at her impersonation of his brother’s gravelly voice. Her ability to mimic others was one of the many hidden delights of his princess: her imitations of Apheidas and Aeneas were hilarious, while her talent for sounding like Hecabe and Leothoë was uncanny, so much so that Paris had nicknamed her Echo after the chattering nymph who could only repeat the words of others. Still smiling, Paris lowered his lips to hers in a soft kiss.

‘I know my brother better than you do, my dear,’ he said, pulling away and looking into her large eyes. ‘And I can tell he likes Andromache. No, don’t laugh, he does.’

‘But he barely looked at her all evening, and the only thing he could talk about was Troy this and Troy that.’

‘That’s natural – Troy is his first love. But when Andromache spoke he listened, and on two occasions he even asked her opinion.’

‘So what?’ said Helen, shrugging her shoulders dismissively. ‘Isn’t that just being polite?’

‘Not for Hector! He’s rarely interested in what others think, and I can’t even remember the last time he asked someone for their opinion. But we shouldn’t mock him; if the Greeks do come, Hector is the best defence we have. He is worth more to Troy than all our allies put together.’

As Paris spoke a horn sounded on one of the towers behind him, followed by a second and then a third. He turned to look in consternation at the city walls, from which the deep, low notes were still reverberating. Several small figures were running along the battlements, and as he watched them more calls followed.

‘What is it?’ asked Helen.

‘They’re sounding the alarm,’ he answered, his voice calm but edged with uncertainty. ‘I used to hear that call every other day when I was on the northern borders, but it hasn’t been sounded here since Heracles attacked – when my father was just a boy.’

He looked over his shoulder at the tall galleys in the bay. The mists were beginning to lift and the dark vessels were clearly visible now. The few men left aboard were pressed to the sides, looking across at the soaring walls of the city as if expecting to see an army drawing near, or to hear the clash of arms ringing out across the empty plains. But nothing had changed beyond the thinning of the clouds above and the appearance of a first few beams of sunlight. They gleamed golden on the parapets and towers of Troy, occasionally flashing off the bronze helmet or spear-point of a soldier.

‘It’s Menelaus,’ Helen said, looking nervously towards the mouth of the bay. Through the haze she could just see where the headland sloped down to reveal the wide north-easterly gulf and the open sea beyond. ‘He must have come for me.’

Paris stroked her cheek and smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s not Menelaus, I promise you. It’s something else, a mistake or some kind of . . .’

‘Some kind of what?’ Helen asked.

But Paris’s attention was focused over her shoulder, forcing her to look back and see for herself what had silenced him.

‘Aphrodite save us,’ she whispered.

Where only a moment before the sea had been empty, but for the mist that crept over its surface, now she could see dark shapes emerging from the wall of swirling grey. At first there were just three or four, moving with calm menace towards the mouth of the bay, but with each nervous breath that filled Helen’s lungs more appeared, and then more until the whole ocean teemed with them. Their broad sails were filled with the warm breeze that a short while before she had been pleased to feel on her face and in her hair. Now she cursed it, for its gentle breath was ushering death and destruction towards her new home. Suddenly the strength left her legs and she fell forward onto her knees in the surf. More horn calls reverberated from the towers and walls of Ilium.

‘Come on, Helen,’ Paris said urgently. The sight of his wife collapsing released him from his shocked stupor, and he leaned forward and lifted her to her feet. ‘Come on, love. We must go.’

‘Why?’ she retorted, trying to push him away. ‘What good will it do? Menelaus has come to take me back, and the walls and armies of Troy won’t stop him.’ She looked in desperation at her husband and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Go back, Paris. Go back to the city and leave me here. If I give myself up to the Greeks they’ll depart in peace and you’ll be safe.’

Before he could stop her, she ran towards the surf-edged waves as if it were her intention to swim out to the Greek fleet. Paris caught her before she was knee-deep in the water, then lifting her into his arms carried her back up the sloping beach towards his chariot. The horses stamped and snorted at his approach, pleased to be in the presence of their master again.

‘You’re my wife now, Helen,’ he said, setting her down in the chariot, ‘and for good or evil we have to face the consequences of what we’ve done. But I’m not letting you go back to him, even if it costs the blood of every man in Troy.’

Overwhelmed with fear, she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in the rough wool of his tunic. Behind them, the crews of the Trojan galleys had abandoned their vessels and were now rowing in dozens of small boats to the shore. Further out, an endless stream of Greek warships was pouring into the mouth of the bay, the motifs on their sails now clearly visible. There were a hundred and fifty of them at least, Paris estimated -eight thousand warriors heading for his home with murderous intent.

From the walls of Troy another horn call erupted, but it was not the long, sonorous warning of the alarm. This time the sound was clear and high, repeated in short bursts, and as it rang out in defiance the gates of Troy swung open and streams of horsemen came flooding out to the attack.

Odysseus and Eperitus stood in the prow of the galley as a warm breeze swept the deck, bellying out the dolphin-motifed sail and pushing them relentlessly towards the shores of Ilium. The sky above was covered by a thin layer of cloud, ploughed into long channels that screened the early morning sun, while all around them the surface of the ocean was covered in a blanket of fine mist. It condensed in their hair and on their eyelashes and made their woollen clothing damp to the touch. Everywhere they looked, packs of black-hulled ships nosed forward through the white fog as if sniffing out their prey.

Eperitus looked over his shoulder at Arceisius and Polites, who sat together on the nearest bench. Arceisius’s eyes stared out nervously from his pale face, making Eperitus recall the look of uncertainty he had seen on the lad’s face when he had killed his first man on Samos. Did his young squire have the stomach for the coming fight, he wondered? Then, reading the look on Eperitus’s face, Polites placed a long, muscular arm reassuringly about Arceisius’s shoulder and began talking to him in his slow, deep voice. Eperitus smiled to himself: the Thessalian was telling him not to worry; whatever lay ahead, he would look after him.

Behind them the deck was crowded with anxious Ithacans, fully armoured in greaves, breastplates and helmets. Most wore their broad leather shields across their backs whilst they sat patiently on the benches, thinking of the battle ahead and the families and homes they had left behind. Their spears lay at their feet and their swords and daggers hung from their belts; for most it would be the first time they had used them in anger, and as they sailed towards the unknown experience of battle, fear and worry gnawed quietly away at their courage.

But many also took heart from the words of their king as the Ithacan soldiery had waited on the beach at Tenedos, ready to board their galleys in the pre-dawn light. Odysseus had stood before them in the full garb of war and spoken of their island homes – of Ithaca, Dulichium, Samos and Zacynthos – knowing full well now, after all his efforts to stop the war, that it was his spoken doom not to see them again for twenty years. He named the hills, woods, harbours and beaches that were so familiar to all of them, evoking images of faraway places that were ever near to their hearts. His voice breaking with passion, he told them they were not merely a body of soldiers – they were a band of countrymen! The dried chelonion flowers they wore in their belts were there to remind them that they were Ithacans. True, they might only be fishermen, farmers or herdsmen by trade, but they were also friends and neighbours: a common identity and a shared homeland bound them to one another. And though for many this day would be their last – dying in a strange country for a woman only a handful of them had ever seen – the glory they reaped that morning would be theirs forever.

Eperitus leaned forward and peered into the mist. The Ithacans were on the far left of the fleet, with the Spartans in the centre and the Myrmidons on the right; but the vanguard was made up of forty ships from Thessaly, led by the brothers Protesilaus and Podarces. Odysseus and Achilles were deliberately holding back, conscious of Thetis’s prophecy that the first man to land would also be the first to die. The fact that Menelaus was not spearheading the attack, though, could only mean Achilles had also shared his mother’s words of doom with the king of Sparta. Then, as Eperitus pondered these things, calls broke out from the leading ships and moments later a line of low black hills appeared through the swirling fog. The sight of land brought excitement to the Ithacan benches, but a barked order from Odysseus quickly restored silence.

The mist was dissipating before the seaborne wind to reveal a spur of land, beyond which was a broad harbour filled with warships. The sight of the high-sided galleys brought a shock of fear and tension to the approaching Greeks. Shields were pulled from backs and spears readied; archers fitted arrows to their bows and gathered in the prows of each ship, ready to fire at the Trojan crews; long lances for fighting ship-to-ship were passed forward. Then they saw the sails were furled and spars stowed. The Trojan fleet was sleeping, and with a mixture of relief and delight they realized their attack was not expected.

Suddenly the attention of every man was drawn away from the dormant enemy vessels to a new sight. Rising above the skeins of fog beyond the mouth of the bay, at last, were the battlements and towers of Troy that they had feared and dreamed of for so long. They shone white in the sunlight that was now breaking through the fine clouds, and here and there fierce flashes of bronze reflected from the weapons of the sentinels that stood on the walls. And as they looked on in awe, horns began calling from the city – deep, sad notes that rolled towards the Greeks like a dirge.

‘They’ve seen us,’ Odysseus announced.

Eperitus could see the king’s knuckles whiten as they gripped the shaft of his spear, but if he felt fear or doubt as they approached the enemy harbour he showed no sign of it. Eperitus, however, felt his mouth grow dry and his stomach stir with nerves. His armour was suddenly heavy as it hung about him, as if the familiar leather and bronze had been transformed to lead. The high fortifications that he had looked up at in admiration on his first visit now seemed menacing and insurmountable. This was the city for which his daughter had been brutally slain, and for which many other terrible sacrifices would soon be required. For the sake of its walls, Odysseus was doomed to spend twenty years away from his beloved family and homeland. Even the great Achilles would perish, forfeiting the sweet joys of mortal existence to die in battle and gain eternity through the songs of bards. Many others would die also, to crowd Hades’s halls with their miserable spectres.

And yet few rued the war, whatever their rank or ability. For the lowborn soldier it was a chance for plunder and riches exceeding anything he could earn with the plough or the fishing net. For the professional warrior there was the exhilaration of battle, for which he had trained most of his life. For those of noble blood, immortal renown called, while for the high-minded there was the hope of restoring the pride of Greece. Agamemnon would fulfil his desire for power over the Greeks and the subjugation of their enemies, and his brother would regain the wondrous wife without whom his life had lost its meaning.

From the first rumours of war, Eperitus had been enticed by the prospect of battle. The love of combat burned in his blood like a fire that could only be quenched by slaughter; and the fire was intensified by his desire to make a name for himself, a name that would outlive his brief time on earth. But since Mycenae, he had realized that such a desire was empty without someone to fight for, someone to cherish his memory and pass it down to others. That hope had perished with the death of Iphigenia, and he knew her loss had changed him. Once, his craving to abandon himself to danger had been driven by a nagging need to prove himself, to survive by the skill and strength that he possessed. Now his joy of battle was powered by other motives: to serve and protect Odysseus and ensure his safe return to Penelope and Telemachus; to honour the memory of Iphigenia, who had always looked on him as a fearsome warrior; and finally a snarling lust to avenge her death. And since he was sworn to protect Agamemnon, it was the soldiers of Troy who would have to bear the brunt of his vengeance.

The Thessalian ships were now pouring through the wide mouth of the harbour. Men appeared on the decks of the Trojan galleys, shocked at the sudden appearance of the Greek fleet. Within moments they were lowering boats into the water and rowing for the shore, while others jumped overboard and swam in their desperation to escape. A few of the Thessalian archers took hopeful shots at the half-naked figures, but the distance was still too great and the arrows clattered harmlessly off the decks or sank into the calm blue waters. By now the Ithacans, Spartans and Myrmidons were cramming into the entrance to the bay. There was a cacophony of noise as, in their haste to reach the undefended beach, hulls scraped against each other and men shouted warnings or angry threats. Then a series of new horn calls erupted from the towers of Ilium, high, quick notes that made men’s blood race and their breath quicken. Every head turned towards the city and a moment later the gates burst open to release a deluge of cavalry. The Greeks stood and watched in excited horror as file after file of horsemen galloped out from the Scaean Gate to the south of the city, forming long lines before the western walls. Ranks of spearmen and archers exited at the same time, pouring onto the plain like an army of irritated ants whose nest had been disturbed.

On the ships, kings and captains bellowed orders to their crews and the decks burst back into life as soldiers readied their arms and sailors manoeuvred their craft into lines. But the Thessalians, who had already reformed, did not wait for their allies and surged forward to the attack. Foremost among them was the ship of Protesilaus, who had ordered his crew to lower their oars and get the galley ashore as quickly as possible. The sibling competition between Protesilaus and Podarces was well known to the Greeks, and it was no surprise to see the ship of the younger brother follow the example of the elder and make for the beach with all speed. But Protesilaus would not be caught. He wanted the honour of being first to land on Trojan soil and now he was visible to the whole fleet, standing alone at the prow of his ship as it raced towards the sand. He was a tall man whose head was covered in ringlets of black hair tinged with grey that hung down to his shoulders. Though his shield was on his arm and he wore breastplate and greaves, his helmet had been cast aside so that all could see him and know who was leading the attack against Troy.

The rest of the forty Thessalian ships followed in the wake of their leaders, while behind them the lines of Myrmidons, Spartans and Ithacans – four deep already, with more still entering the mouth of the harbour – began to move into the attack. But the Trojans were racing out to meet them. Hundreds of horsemen, the ground thudding beneath the hooves of their mounts, poured forward across the plain, the early morning sunshine glinting on their raised spear-points. They were followed by dozens of chariots, each pulled by a pair of horses and carrying a driver and an archer or spearman in the light cars that bounced behind. Finally, row upon row of infantry and swarms of archers came running after them, a mighty roar of defiance thundering out from their throats to fill the air above the plain.

Protesilaus narrowed his eyes at the approaching army, several thousand strong with every man viciously armed and baying for blood. With a last, hurried prayer to Ares on his lips, he gripped the high prow of his ship and waited for the impact as it hit the beach. He glanced across at his brother, who was still behind him and away to his right, then behind at his men, still heaving at the oars. A moment later the broad belly of the galley thumped into a sandy shelf below the waterline. Everyone on board lurched forward, tumbling over each other as the vessel slid to a halt. With a great shout, Protesilaus leapt overboard and landed knee-deep in the water. Clutching his long spear fiercely in both hands, he waded through the surf towards the beach.

The Trojan army was now screened from his sight by a high bank, where the beach rose up to meet the firmer soil of the plain. The ridge was crowned by a curtain of tall, dry grass that quivered in the breeze from the sea. As Protesilaus cleared the water he took another fleeting look to his right, where Podarces’s galley was now juddering to a halt further along the beach, then over his shoulder to where the different-coloured bows of the Greek galleys were racing towards the shore. His own men were now crowding into the prow of his galley, but instead of leaping into the water their eyes were focused on the plain beyond the grassy ridge. Two or three archers released hurried shots, and then Protesilaus heard the drumming of hooves followed by the snort of a horse. He looked up and saw a man on a grey mare standing on the bank at the top of the beach, a long spear held at the ready in his right hand. He was tall and powerfully built. His stern, bearded face looked down at the Greek warrior with a ferocious hatred.

‘When your ghost reaches the halls of Hades,’ he began, speaking in Greek, ‘tell the dead you are the first of many today, and that you were slain by Hector, son of Priam.’

Protesilaus felt a momentary tremor of fear, then with a rush of energy his courage returned the strength to his limbs. In a quick movement he pulled back his spear and aimed it at the horseman. But before it could leave his hand, Hector’s own weapon caught him in the chest, piercing the breastplate and hurling him backwards with such force that Protesilaus was pinned against the hull of his own ship. A howl of anger erupted from the deck above him, followed by a rush of armoured bodies as the Thessalians leapt down into the surf and ran yelling past their dead leader towards the man who had killed him. In response, Hector drew his sword and spurred his horse down the slope to meet them. He was followed by a great pounding of hooves, and a moment later a wave of horsemen swept over the grassy ridge to plunge into the crowd of Greek spearmen.

From the prow of their ship, Odysseus and Eperitus looked on in silence as the Thessalians fell back before the onslaught. The Trojan horses were up to their hocks in the sea, their riders hacking and slashing at the invaders, lopping heads and limbs from bodies and filling the dark waters with corpses. More Thessalians leapt recklessly into the fray from the sides of their galley. The nearest horsemen were caught and dragged from their mounts, to be stabbed, throttled or drowned in the shallow waters. But the Trojans were winning an easy victory, enjoying the advantage of height, momentum and numbers. Hector was at the heart of the fight, a master of battle who led his men by the example of his own ferocity and courage.

The slaughter of the Thessalians was terrible to watch. The water churned all around them from the thrashing of the wounded and dying, and the breakers were scarlet with their blood. Further along the beach Podarces and his men were also hemmed in by cavalry, but a screen of archers firing from the prow of his ship forced the Trojans back and allowed him to form his spearmen into a line. Soon they were pushing along the beach towards his brother’s galley, driving the enemy horsemen before them.

‘Ready your shields and spears!’ Eperitus ordered, looking back at the rows of soldiers. Like the Thessalians, they were mostly inexperienced and poorly armed. Fear was written clearly on many of their faces, though some seemed eager for their first battle. Others were relaxed and calm, and Polites was one of these. Towering head and shoulders above Arceisius, he chatted happily to the young squire while adjusting the fit of his armour, as if he were preparing for nothing more dangerous than a training exercise. Though the Thessalian had once been an unwelcome bandit in their homeland, the Ithacans around him drew comfort from his massive presence and confident mien.

It pleased Eperitus to see his men and he knew his faith in them was warranted. The long days of training he and Odysseus had given them at Aulis would help them to survive, and in time their experience and fighting instinct would develop. More than that, they were drawn from doughty stock, peace-loving islanders who were slow to anger, but when roused were tough, courageous and fearsome. And though not one of them had experienced warfare on such a scale before, Eperitus was sure that under Odysseus’s leadership they would prove themselves more than a match for the Trojans.

Thessalian ships were thumping into the sand at every point now. Eperitus watched in tense excitement as hundreds of yelling warriors spewed onto the beach, enraged at the death of their leader and seeking vengeance in Trojan blood. But Hector was a skilled cavalry commander. Knowing his lightly armoured horsemen were wasted in a standing fight, he was already leading them back across the plain to safety. But there was another purpose to the practised disorder of their flight, and to Eperitus’s dismay many of the Greeks were taking the bait.

They were led by Podarces, who by then had found his older brother’s body still pinned to the hull of his ship. With tears of grief and rage in his eyes, he led his men through the screen of tall grass to the plain beyond, only to see the cavalry already streaming to safety behind a long wall of Trojan spearmen. Undeterred, the Thessalians now charged towards the disciplined line of tall, rectangular shields hedged with heavy spears. The immediate danger did not come from the infantry, though, but the densely packed archers who stood behind them. At an order from Hector, they let fly their arrows and the Thessalian ranks fell like stalks of wheat before a scythe. They wavered for a moment, then rushed forward again, only to be met by another hail of missiles. This time the survivors, Podarces among them, turned and fled back to the cover of the sloping beach. Not one man had reached the Trojan line.

By this time the first waves of Spartans, Myrmidons and Ithacans were hitting the shoreline, beaching their ships all along the great crescent of sand between the mouths of the Simo¨eis and the Scamander. Eperitus felt a heavy thud beneath the belly of the ship and an instant later the whole mass of wood, leather and canvas came to a halt. Within a moment he had leapt down into the surf, close behind Odysseus, and was splashing up the sloping beach. The rest of the crew followed, pouring over the sides of the galley and shouting like Furies, drunk on fear and courage. All around them masses of other Greeks were surging ashore to join the battered Thessalians, who were already reforming for a second attack.

Out in the bay, flames were blazing up from the Trojan galleys where reckless Greeks had tossed lighted torches over the sides as they passed. Now great plumes of black smoke were carried inland on the sea breeze, darkening the air over the beach and the plains beyond. Then there was a great hum of massed bowstrings released simultaneously, followed by the evil hiss of arrows as they filled the sky. Men looked up in fear, watching as the black shafts seemed to hang suspended for a long moment, before plunging down again towards the crowded shore and the galleys behind. Eperitus and Odysseus threw themselves on the sand with their shields above their heads as the deadly hail of bronze-tipped missiles fell. Many clattered on the wooden decks of the Greek ships or snagged in the sails; others hit the water or thumped into the raised leather shields of crouching soldiers. And many found their mark. Men cried out as arrows bit into flesh, toppling dead and wounded alike onto the sand or back into the waiting water. More men tumbled from the decks of the ships, clutching at the long, feathered shafts protruding from torsos and limbs.

‘Keep your shields raised, damn it,’ Odysseus shouted at his countrymen, as more arrows rose into the smoke-filled sky and fell again. More screams of pain rang out and more men fell.

Then one voice rose above all the others. It was a great bellowing shout of rage, a sound that filled even Eperitus with sudden fear. And then, bursting out from the Myrmidon ranks like a raging lion, he saw Achilles. He wore a black-plumed helmet with a bronze visor crafted to look like the face of the war god, its mouth open in a war cry and its eyes frowning in anger. He bore his tall shield before him and in his right hand he carried his fabled ash spear, but no weight of arms could slow the speed of his wrath or his lust for battle. Before his Myrmidons or any of the other Greeks could think to follow, he had sprinted up the beach and leapt through the screen of grass to the plain above. Startled and exhilarated by the ferocity and pace of Achilles’s attack – and desperate to see him in battle – Eperitus forgot the danger of the Trojan archers and raced towards the protective bank. It seemed every other man in the Greek army had the same thought, and the roar of their voices as they charged up the beach was deafening.

Eperitus felt a new surge of energy as he dashed across the sand. Odysseus was at his side – his usually mild features now fearsome to look at – and together they plunged through the tall grass to the plain beyond. Ahead of them, looming like a great cliff in the distance, were the walls and towers of their goal – the city of Troy. In between were the lines of Hector’s infantry, their spear-points bristling as they awaited the heavily armoured Greeks. A great press of archers were behind them, preparing to release a new volley of arrows – this time directly at the front rank of the invaders – while the cavalry had split into two groups and were moving to protect the flanks. Hector sat astride his grey mare behind the rows of waiting spearmen, his burnished armour flashing in the sunlight and his sword raised high above his head. As he saw the mass of Greeks rush out from the cover of the beach, with the lone figure of Achilles sprinting ahead of them, his stern face broke into a satisfied grin. A moment later his sword fell and a thousand arrows carried death to the enemies of Troy.

Eperitus was running with his heavy shield held one-handed before him. Arrows thumped into the thick, four-fold leather; all about him soldiers screamed and crashed to the ground, to be trampled by the men behind. He glimpsed Achilles through the black smoke that rolled across the plain, swatting aside the storm of missiles with a sweep of his shield as if they were nothing more than a cloud of flies. But many more followed, and to Eperitus’s amazement the black shafts broke or sprang away from the prince as if they had hit a pillar of stone. Laughing with the joy of battle and the certainty of his own invulnerability, Achilles charged straight into the Trojan line, to be lost from sight as his enemies closed about him.

The rest of the Greeks followed, hurling their spears before them and bringing many of the Trojans down into the dust. The gaps were closed quickly, though, and as the Greeks drew their swords and renewed the attack – desperate to come to grips with their enemies – Hector boomed out another order. More arrows flew into the press of Greeks, as on their flanks the Trojan horsemen couched their spears under their arms and broke into a charge. At the same time, the infantry ran forward to meet the invaders, their meticulously sharpened spears glinting like points of fire through the clouds of dust.

Many of the Greeks were skewered by the onslaught and carried back into the ranks of their comrades. More fell to the arrows that swept down on them like an unceasing rain, and at the edges of the battle the Trojan cavalry were cutting deep swathes through their disorganized enemy. But if Hector’s force was disciplined, experienced and well led, their numbers were too few to drive the Greek assault back into the sea. Within moments, the shock of their attack had been absorbed by the mass of men still pouring off the ships and up the beaches. Many of the Trojan horsemen had plunged too deeply into the horde of invaders and now found themselves surrounded and cut off from their comrades, where they were killed with spears or pulled from their mounts and butchered. Elsewhere, Podarces had organized a large company of Greek archers who were returning the fire of their Trojan counterparts, killing many and breaking up the effectiveness of their volleys. And where the Trojan spearmen had at first carried their enemies before them, they were now disadvantaged by the length of their weapons against the shorter swords of the Greeks. For all the cleverness and ferocity of Hector’s tactics, the momentum of his attack was being neutralized by the sheer weight of his enemy’s numbers.

Chapter Thirty-two

THE GATES OF TROY

Eperitus and Odysseus had met the assault together, turning aside the Trojan spears with their shields and bringing their swords to bear in the confined press of sweating, heaving bodies. Side by side, they could see fear in the dark faces of their opponents as they struck them down, hacking and slashing indiscriminately with an energy born from the desperate will to survive and the heart-thumping joy of bringing death and destruction. As warrior after warrior fell to his sword, Eperitus felt as if – like Achilles and Ajax – no weapon could harm him. Though soaked in the gore of his victims, he shouted with the elation of battle, baying for more blood as he stood on a knife’s edge, balanced between death and Hades on the one side and Olympian glory on the other.

At Eperitus’s side, Odysseus was also a man transformed. The lust of war had consumed him and with his normally pleasant face now a red mask, he looked more like a savage beast than a man. The experienced, hard-fighting Trojans were unable to withstand the ferocity of his attacks, and many of their number lay dead around the Ithacan king. Beside him was Antiphus, who was proving himself to be as deadly with a sword as he was with a bow, while – to Eperitus’s satisfaction – Arceisius was also in the thick of the fighting, using the skills his captain had taught him with the ability and temerity of a hardened veteran.

The Ithacans were killing and being killed in large numbers, littering the ground with bodies – both Trojan and their own – so that it was almost impossible to move. Those who had an instinct for fighting were realizing the power that a sword or a spear gave to them and revelling in the slaughter of their opponents; those who did not were being killed by the true warriors in the Trojan ranks. On both sides there were men who turned and tried to flee the horror of combat, though few found a passage through the solid mass of men behind them and were quickly brought down by a sword or spear through their unprotected backs. But where Odysseus and Eperitus fought, the Trojan spearmen were laid out in heaps and the line was thinning dangerously. Suddenly the last few soldiers turned and fled, leaving the two Ithacans facing the open plain with only a handful of mounted officers between them and the walls of Troy.

Seeing the danger, three horsemen urged their mounts straight at the gap in the line. At their head was a tall man with a long spear couched under one of his muscular arms. He had cruel eyes and his mouth was drawn back in a hateful sneer that revealed his broken yellow teeth. The two others were on either side of him, yelling furiously with their swords held high above their heads.

Odysseus and Eperitus raised their shields against the attack, but without their spears they knew their defence would be shortlived. Determined to save his king, Eperitus stepped forward to take the full force of the charge, but as the black stallion of the lead rider approached – the heavy fall of its hooves shaking the ground beneath his feet – a gigantic figure lumbered past him, running straight at the charging horse. The stallion panicked and tried to turn away, but Polites threw his great arms about its neck and pushed it into the flank of the horse to its right. Both fell, pinning their surprised riders beneath them and sending up a cloud of dust from the sun-baked earth.

The other horseman, who had veered aside as Polites ran out, now tugged at the reins of his white mare and spurred it back towards the huge Greek soldier who had felled his comrades. Polites heard the beat of hooves behind him and turned as the Trojan’s sword swept down towards his face. With a reaction that belied his size, he threw up his arm and caught the rider’s wrist, pulling him from the back of his horse as it galloped past and throwing him to the ground, where he stepped on his neck and broke it.

A moment later, Hector’s booming voice called out and suddenly the surviving Trojans were pulling back.

‘We owe you our lives,’ Odysseus said, as he and Eperitus reached Polites’s side.

‘I have simply repaid you for sparing me on Samos,’ Polites replied, before turning to watch the retreating Trojans.

Heedless of the archers who were covering their retreat, the three men looked on in admiration as the spearmen reformed into ordered ranks and began to withdraw across the plain. With equal discipline, the surviving cavalry were now hovering at each flank, threatening to swoop down on any pursuit. Then, as they watched their opponents marching at a steady pace back to the Scaean Gate, the Greeks let out a triumphant cheer.

‘Silence!’ Odysseus ordered, his deep voice clearly audible over the shouting. ‘You can celebrate when the battle is over. Ithacans, form ranks on me. Badly wounded to return to the ships as best you can.’

Similar shouts were repeated up and down the Greek line as the surviving warriors formed themselves back into their units and began the pursuit. They advanced across the plain at a fast pace, the Ithacans and Thessalians on the left, the Spartans and Myrmidons on the right. Hundreds of bodies were left behind them, some of which still stirred or twitched with the last remnants of life; a dark bank of piled corpses marked where the initial struggle had taken place, with an arrowhead of dead Trojans where Achilles had cut his way through their massed ranks. And it was Achilles who now led the pursuit, striding ahead of his black-clad Myrmidons with Patroclus at his side, keen to join battle again with his enemies.

The Trojans were almost lost behind the cloud of dust that rose from their march and the black pall of smoke that blew across the plain from the burning galleys. But the Greeks were gaining on them and knew that any attempt to re-enter the city through the Scaean Gate would result in a bottleneck, allowing them to catch Hector’s force and possibly carry the gate as well. It was no surprise, therefore, when the Trojans passed the south-facing entrance and continued up the slope towards the other side of the city walls. Archers on the high battlements and towers of Troy gave their countrymen some cover, but the Greeks had the taste of victory now and pressed the chase.

‘This is what I feared,’ said Odysseus, turning to Eperit‘Come with me – we need to find Menelaus.’

The two men dropped back through the ranks and ran towards the rear of the Spartan army, where they found Menelaus striding confidently behind his well-ordered men. His breastplate and shield were spattered with dried gore and his face glowed with anticipation of victory as he turned to greet the two Ithacans.

‘What is it, my friends?’ he asked with a smile, his teeth strangely white against his dirt-and blood-caked face. ‘You look concerned, Odysseus.’

‘I am,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Our orders were to keep the Trojans fighting on the plain so they can be massacred in the open, not chase them back to the city walls.’

‘That can’t be helped now,’ Menelaus said. ‘Hector’s lost the will to fight, and if we let the Trojans slip back into the city it’ll take months to prise them out again.’

‘But Agamemnon’s late,’ Eperitus said, glancing across to the hills on the other side of the Scamander. ‘His plan to trap the Trojans on the plain has failed.’

‘And if we’re not careful, it’s us who will be drawn into a trap,’ Odysseus added, looking up as another swarm of black-feathered arrows flew up from the city walls. They dropped among the Spartans with a dry rattle, felling a dozen men. ‘Hector only wants us to believe we’re winning so he can lure us closer to the city walls. Why do you think reinforcements weren’t sent from the city? Because they’re waiting for us to pass the Scaean Gate, and then they’ll pour out behind us and block our retreat to the ships. Hector has out-thought us at every stage of the battle so far, and unless we stop the pursuit we’re going to be attacked from all sides, with the Scamander at our backs!’

‘Then let them come!’ Menelaus retorted, angrily. ‘If we can keep these Trojan scum fighting until my brother arrives, there’s still a chance of a quick victory. Hector won’t dare take on the whole Greek army: the Trojans will turn and run, and when they do there’s a chance we can follow them through the gates. If we can do that, Troy will be ours by nightfall.’

‘I wish it were that easy,’ Odysseus sighed. ‘But if you must go ahead with this folly, at least order the Thessalians to remain in front of the Scaean Gate. They’ve had the worst of things so far and there are enough of the rest of us to destroy what’s left of Hector’s force.’

‘No, Odysseus,’ Menelaus answered with a firm wave of his hand. ‘As soon as we pass the walls I’m going to drive Hector eastward, away from the safety of the city, and finish him off on the plain. And if Ares has heard my prayers, I’ll find his thieving rat of a brother at his side! Now, return to your men and prepare them to attack.’

Odysseus and Eperitus found the Ithacans angered by the withering fire from the archers on the city walls and keen to get at the Trojans once more. As they passed the Scaean Gate, though, and marched up the slope out of range of the arrows, it seemed they would get their wish. The dust cloud that obscured the Trojans had not moved north towards the Dardanian Gate, as Eperitus had expected, but continued east as if drawing the Greeks away from the walls. And then it stopped moving altogether and, as the haze began to settle, the lines of spearmen and cavalry could be seen as dark shapes in the brown mist, waiting silently atop the slope. In response, Menelaus’s voice barked orders that were repeated all along the Greek ranks, stopping the army in its tracks.

If Odysseus was right, Eperitus thought, now would be the time for the city gates to open and pour forth the Trojan reserves. Odysseus was obviously thinking the same and threw a nervous glance over his shoulder, but his attention was soon pulled back to the Trojans at the top of the slope. For, as the last of the dust drifted away, the true genius of Hector’s plan became apparent. Before them were the remainder of Hector’s spearmen, archers and cavalry – bloodstained and dirt-covered; many bearing wounds – but on either side of them a new force was emerging. Line upon line of spearmen marched into view, silhouetted black by the light of the early morning sun rising in the east; hundreds more cavalry, strengthened by scores of chariots, were massing to the left and right, ready to pour down into the now out-numbered Greeks. And as the invaders looked up at the superior force gathering before them – drawn from Troy’s allies, whose vast camp was out of sight beyond the rise of the slope – horns blew on the towers behind them. In response, the Scaean and Dardanian Gates opened to disgorge a flood of infantry and horsemen, led by Paris in his battle-scarred armour and with the scarlet plume of his helmet fluttering in the breeze. Hector’s trap was sprung: the Greeks were surrounded on the east, west and north, with the broad Scamander blocking their flight to the south.

‘I wish you could be wrong from time to time, Odysseus,’ Eperitus said, giving his friend a look of resignation.

Odysseus smiled back and gripped his spear. ‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘The oracle said I would live for at least another twenty years.’

‘That’s fine for you, but I don’t have that reassurance.’

‘Then you’ll have to fight, Eperitus,’ Odysseus grinned fiercely, as the horde of warriors at the top of the slope began to march towards them, lowering their spear-points. ‘And you’ll have to fight hard.’

He shouted for the rear ranks to turn and face the force that was forming by the city walls, then pushed his way through to the front of the east-facing line. Most men had retrieved spears from the battlefield after the first clash, and these were now presented towards the approaching Trojans. Eperitus saw Arceisius in the first row of spearmen and forced a route through the tightly packed warriors to stand beside him.

‘When will the others arrive?’ the young squire asked, without averting his eyes from the enemy at the top of the slope.

‘Soon, I hope,’ Eperitus answered, looking beyond the River Scamander to the southern hills. ‘We’ve drawn the Trojans out, as we were ordered, but unless they arrive soon Agamemnon’s plan is going to prove a costly mistake.’

As he finished speaking, a number of things happened. The deep, sinister hum of hundreds of bowstrings came from the other side of the rise, and a moment later the sky was dark with arrows. They fell with deadly effect into the close ranks of the Greeks, and once more cries of pain and death filled the air. At the same moment, they heard the trundle of wheels and the thud of hoofs as the host of Trojan cavalry rushed down the slope towards them, bypassing the heavily armoured spearman in their eagerness to win glory. Finally, there was a great shout from the mass of warriors still forming up by the city gates, who then rushed towards the surrounded Greeks, hurling their spears before them.

Eperitus jammed the bronze-tipped butt of his spear into the ground and prepared to meet the onslaught of horsemen and chariots. He had never faced a cavalry charge before, and as the speeding mass of horses rushed towards him – the beat of their hooves thundering in his ribcage – he felt a terror he had never known before in battle. He tried to remember what his grandfather had taught him about cavalry. He knew a horse would instinctively seek a gap in a wall of spears, or would try to leap over them if they were but two or three deep. Even so, the horse would have to be well trained and sense that its rider was fully committed to the charge; then, if the leading horses attacked, those behind would follow, driven by their herd instinct.

In order to repel the charge, the Greeks only had to hold their nerve and close ranks. If they did that, the approaching horses would baulk and turn aside. But for a man to remain steady as a wave of cavalry bore down on him required bravery, discipline and trust in his comrades. If any of those qualities were lacking and men fled the charge, the terrified horses would stream into the gaps they left and their riders would bring swift death down on the defenders. In the end, it would be a contest between the courage of the rider and the courage of the spearman. And from what Eperitus could see, the Trojan cavalrymen were holding their nerve.

At the last moment, the Greek archers released a deadly volley that spilled scores of men and horses to the ground, but it was not enough to halt the attack. The cavalry came on, the riders yelling with the joy of battle and their mounts wide-eyed with fear. Eperitus watched the throng of horses galloping towards him and shouted for the Ithacans to hold fast. The order was carried down the line, and the inexperienced ranks of half-trained farmers and fishermen drew deep on their courage. With shaking hands and beating hearts they gripped the shafts of their spears and held the line.

Suddenly, the Thessalians to their right began to break up. They had lost their leader and many of their comrades, and the sight of the Trojan horsemen had proved too much. As the gaps appeared in their line the whole force of cavalry seemed to pour towards them, bypassing the unwavering line of spears presented by the Ithacans on one side, and the Myrmidons and Spartans – under the firm command of Achilles and Menelaus – on the other. As the cavalry streamed past, a hail of arrows and spears brought many of them down into the dust, but it was too late to save the unfortunate Thessalians, who were skewered from behind or hacked down as they fled.

Eperitus looked on in horror at the massacre, conscious – as was every man around him – that the Ithacans would have met a similar fate if they had not held their nerve. Then, as he sensed the lines of Trojan spearmen running down the hill towards them, he noticed a horseman chasing after a Thessalian. The Greek threw his hands over the back of his head to protect himself, but the rider’s sword simply chopped through his fingers and sliced into the back of his head, killing him at once. A moment later, he turned his mount around and signalled to a troop of cavalrymen, ordering them after a knot of Thessalians who were fleeing towards the river. And as Eperitus saw the horseman’s face a shock of recognition passed through him. The strength drained from his limbs, forcing him momentarily to lean his weight on his spear as he stared with disbelieving eyes at a man he had not seen for ten years. The Trojan horseman was his father.

Suddenly Calchas’s words returned to him: a second secret would draw him back to Ilium, whether there was war or not. That second secret was his father, a secret that Clytaemnestra had also known but had chosen not to reveal to him. Somehow, beyond Eperitus’s comprehension, the man he had despised for ten years, the man who had usurped the throne of Alybas and brought shame and dishonour on his family, was now a soldier in the army of Troy.

As he stared at the hated face of his father, a new and sudden fury began to sear through his veins like heated bronze, opening old wounds and feeding off the fresh wound of his daughter’s death. It was the desire for vengeance, a rapacious, all consuming lust to lessen the shame and grief of the past – both distant and recent – by the spilling of blood. He could not kill Agamemnon, but there was no promise preventing him from taking vengeance on his father, and as his rage grew within him he saw, at last, a means to reduce his suffering.

‘Where are you going?’ shouted Arceisius as Eperitus broke out of the rank of spearmen and dashed towards a riderless horse.

Eperitus ignored him. Leaping on the back of the black mare, he seized the reins and spurred the animal forward. Arrows flew over his head in both directions as he rode through the broad gap in the Greek line, galloping down the slope towards the place where he had seen his father. Horsemen and chariots thundered all around, firing arrows or hurling spears at the two islands of Greek warriors – the smaller group of Ithacans on one side, some six hundred strong, and the much larger force of Spartans and Myrmidons on the other, numbering more than five thousand. The ground in between was littered with dead and wounded Thessalians. The remainder were either being pursued towards the river or driven onto the spears of the reserves who had poured out of the Scaean Gate under Paris’s command. Many, though, had formed a desperate circle of spears and were fending off repeated attacks from the Trojan cavalry. It was here that Eperitus saw his father, reforming his men for a fresh assault on the battered Thessalians.

‘Father!’ he called, his voice high and clear amidst the din of war. ‘Father!’

Apheidas turned and stared at his son. For a moment, as they looked at each other across the field of death and destruction, it was as if they were no longer part of the battle that raged all around them. Unexpectedly, Apheidas found himself staring at his only remaining son, who in a moment of rash anger he had exiled from his kingdom ten years before. Eperitus stared back, his eyes burning with hatred. Then horn calls were blowing in the distance and reluctantly father and son turned to the hills in the south, where thousands upon thousands of warriors were streaming down towards the fords of the Scamander. At last, Agamemnon had arrived, and with him were the armies of Diomedes, Idomeneus, Ajax and the rest of Greece. They had beached their ships in the bay north of Tenedos and had marched inland, hoping to cut the Trojans off on the plain as they fought the smaller force under Menelaus – the bait, as Agamemnon had referred to them. The bait had been taken, but it was too late to cut the Trojans off on the plain. The Greeks’ best hope now was that Hector would turn and fight, and that they would then defeat his army and pursue it back through the gates into the city.

But Hector was no fool. Seeing the large numbers of Greeks already crossing the Scamander and preparing to push up the slope, he ordered the attack to be broken off and for the Trojan army and its allies to return to the city. Horns called out, rising over the clash of weapons and the hoarse shouts of struggling men, and suddenly the besieged armies of Ithacans, Spartans and Greeks were left standing among the piles of dead, watching the backs of their retreating enemies through a protective screen of cavalry. Too late, Menelaus spotted Paris disappearing through the Scaean Gate, and was forced to watch in seething anger as the man who had stolen his wife slipped back behind the safety of Troy’s walls.

Apheidas threw a last glance at his son, then led his horsemen away from the surviving Thessalians towards the newly arrived Greeks, intending to slow their advance while the rest of the army found shelter inside the city. As Eperitus saw him ride off, a fierce anger gripped him. He drew his sword from its scabbard, and with a roar of fury charged down the slope towards him. At the same moment, a group of three horsemen who were galloping back across the plain from the direction of the Scamander, where they had been hunting Thessalians, tucked their spears under their arms and turned towards him.

The first came dashing in from Eperitus’s left, levelling the head of his weapon at his liver. Eperitus quickly changed direction, cutting across the front of his attacker’s horse and switching his sword into his left hand. A moment later, the Trojan’s head had been swept from his shoulders and his body fell heavily to the ground, where it landed with a puff of dust. At once, his comrades spurred their horses towards Eperitus, one on either side to prevent his escape. They were confident that they were the better horsemen, and that the reach of their spears would carry the lone Greek to his death long before he could bring his sword to bear. Then one of them jerked back, a momentary look of surprise on his face before the darkness of death took him and he fell from his horse, a feathered arrow protruding from his chest. The other ignored the demise of his comrade and leaned forward with gritted teeth, spurring his horse ever faster towards his quarry. Eperitus dug his heels into the flanks of his own horse, leaning close to her neck and extending his sword at arm’s length before him. Squinting against the dust and bright sunlight, he heard the rapid tramp of approaching hooves on the dry turf and the snorting of his opponent’s mount. There was a glint of armour as the Trojan cavalryman came sweeping towards him, then Eperitus’s arm was torn violently aside as his sword was ripped from his hand. He heard a heavy thud behind him and, reining his horse about, he saw the body of his rival lying on the ground, surrounded by a cloud of dust. Eperitus’s sword was still quivering as it stuck up from his chest.

‘Eperitus!’ Odysseus shouted, running towards him with Antiphus at his side, bow in hand. Polites, Arceisius and a score more Ithacans were coming up behind them. ‘Give me your horse! There’s still time to keep the gates from shutting before Agamemnon arrives.’

Eperitus looked urgently back towards the plain, where he had last seen his father. Horsemen were pouring back through the Scaean Gate, their task of screening the Trojan retreat complete. The only other living soldiers outside the walls of Troy now were Greek – Agamemnon’s unblooded force marching up from the fords, and the battle-wearied survivors under Menelaus’s command regrouping at the top of the slope, out of bowshot of the city walls. The bodies of men and horses were strewn all across the plain, from the sandy beaches where the Greeks had landed up to the slopes around the walls of Troy. Of Apheidas there was no sign.

Eperitus backed his whinnying horse away from Odysseus’s outstretched hand and shook his head.

‘No, my lord. You’ll be shot down before you get anywhere near them. I can’t let you ride to your death.’

‘It’s an order, Eperitus, not a request!’ the king snapped angrily.

Eperitus stared down at him for a moment, then dismounted smartly. But before Odysseus could reach for the reins, he slapped his hand down hard on the mare’s flank and sent her galloping towards the gates of Troy.

‘The plan has failed, Odysseus,’ he said. ‘Penelope will have to wait a little longer.’

Odysseus watched the last of the Trojan cavalry crowding back into the city and nodded slowly, a hint of despair in his usually confident eyes.

‘You’re right, Eperitus,’ he sighed. ‘But for how much longer?’

As he spoke, the Scaean Gate slammed shut with a heavy thud.

The siege of Troy had begun.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The events that take place in The Gates of Troy are based, for the most part, on original myths. There are several versions of the events that led up to the Trojan War – many of them contradictory – so I’ve chosen the accounts I enjoy most or feel contribute best to the story. For example, some have it that Helen was kidnapped by Paris and taken to Troy against her will, while others say she went readily, having fallen in love with the Trojan prince. I’ve opted for the latter, as there’s nothing like love for starting a fight.

The other events in the book that I’ve taken direct from myth include Odysseus’s failed attempt to feign madness and avoid the war, the embassy to Troy, the gathering of the Greek fleet at Aulis, and the sacrifice of Iphigenia. There was never any question in Greek mythology that Iphigenia was Agamemnon’s daughter, but the tales do differ widely on her fate. Aeschylus, for example, makes it clear in the Oresteia that Agamemnon sacrificed his daughter to appease the wrath of Artemis. While Homer is silent on the matter, Euripides in Iphigenia at Aulis has Artemis replace the girl with a deer at the last moment. Unfortunately for Iphigenia, I haven’t been quite so merciful in my retelling of the story.

Moving on, according to ancient tales Achilles killed King Tenes after he hurled a rock at the Greek fleet. He then murdered his manservant, Mnemon, for failing to remind him not to kill any son of Apollo! Shortly afterwards, Philoctetes was bitten on the foot by a snake and, because of his constant groaning and the stench of his wound, was then marooned on Lemnos by Odysseus. And Protesilaus was the first man to hit the beach at Troy, and consequently the first casualty of the war.

Eperitus, on the other hand, comes from my imagination. When retelling a series of popular and well-known tales, it’s often useful to have an unknown element to skew events a little. I also hope the straightforward and honourable Eperitus acts as a foil to Odysseus’s often unscrupulous cunning. Certainly both men will need all these qualities and the strength of their unique friendship if they are to survive the long and bloody war with Troy, of which we’ve seen only the opening skirmish in The Gates of Troy. They have another ten years of fighting ahead of them before Zeus tips his golden scales in favour of one side or the other.

But that’s a different story.

Praise for Glyn Iliffe ‘King of Ithaca is a great read which embodies the finest elements of war, friendship and betrayal that can be found in Homer’s great works . . . This is a must read for those who enjoy good old epic battles, chilling death scenes and the extravagance of ancient Greece’

Lifestyle Magazine

‘The world of this novel appears as many scholars see that of Homer: a rich melange of different eras . . . It has suspense, treachery and bone-crunching action . . . It will leave fans of the genre eagerly awaiting the rest of the series’

Harry Sidebottom,

author of the bestselling Warrior of Rome series ‘This daring debut is a stirring retelling of classic Greek mythology complete with all its adventure, passion, battles and, of course, the characters who have remained fascinating over thousands of years. King of Ithaca proves to be a voyage of discovery – both for Odysseus and the readers. It’s an epic tale told with an academic’s eye for history and a born storyteller’s feel for credible dialogue and the power of suspense’

Lancashire Evening Post

‘The reader does not need to be a classicist by any means to enjoy this epic and stirring tale. It makes a great novel and would be an even better film’

Historical Novels Review

Glyn Iliffe studied English and Classics at Reading University where he developed a passion for the ancient stories of Greek history and mythology. Well-travelled, Glyn has visited nearly forty countries, trekked in the Himalayas, spent six weeks hitchhiking across North America and had his collarbone broken by a bull in Pamplona.

Also by Glyn Iliffe

King of Ithaca

The Armour of Achilles

FOR ROBIN ILIFFE

GLOSSARY

A

Achilles

– Myrmidon prince

Actoris

– Penelope’s body slave

Aeneas

– Dardanian prince, the son of Anchises

Agamemnon

– king of Mycenae

Ajax (greater)

– king of Salamis

Ajax (lesser)

– prince of Locris

Andromache

– daughter of King Eëtion of the Cilicians, allies of Troy

Antenor

– Trojan elder

Antinous

– Ithacan lad, bullying son of Eupeithes

Antiphus

– Ithacan guardsman

Apheidas

– Trojan commander

Aphrodite

– goddess of love

Apollo

– archer god, associated with music, song and healing

Arceisius

– squire to Eperitus

Ares

– god of war

Artemis

– virgin moon-goddess associated with childbirth, noted for her vengefulness

Athena

– goddess of wisdom and warfare

Aulis

– sheltered bay in the Euboean Straits

C

Calchas

– Trojan priest of Apollo

Chelonion

– flower native to Ithaca

Clytaemnestra

– queen of Mycenae and wife of Agamemnon

Ctessipus

– Ithacan lad, friend of Antinous and son of Polytherses

D

Deiphobus

– younger brother of Hector and Paris

Demeter

– goddess of agriculture

Diomedes

– king of Argos and ally of Agamemnon

Dulichium

– Ionian island, forming northernmost part of Odysseus’s kingdom

E

Eleusis

– port town on the Saronic Sea

Eperitus

– captain of Odysseus’s guard

Eteoneus

– herald of Menelaus

Euboea

– large island off the east coast of mainland Greece

Eupeithes

– Ithacan noble and former traitor

Eurotas

– Spartan river

Euryalus

– companion of Diomedes

Eurybates

– Odysseus’s squire

Eurylochus

– Ithacan soldier, cousin of Odysseus

Exadios

– Trojan soldier

G

Galatea

– a priestess of Artemis

H

Hades

– god of the Underworld

Halitherses

– former captain of Ithacan royal guard

Hecabe

– Trojan queen, wife of King Priam

Hector

– Trojan prince, oldest son of King Priam

Helen

– queen of Sparta, wife of King Menelaus

Hephaistos

– god of fire; blacksmith to the Olympians

Hera

– goddess married to Zeus

Hermes

– messenger of the gods; his duties also include shepherding the souls of the dead to the Underworld

Hesione

– sister of King Priam, abducted by Telamon

Hestia

– goddess of the hearth and protectress of the household

I

Ida (Mount)

– principal mountain in Ilium

Idaeus

– herald to King Priam

Idomeneus

– king of Crete

Ilium

– the region of which Troy was the capital

Ionian Sea

– sea to the west of the Greek mainland

Iphigenia

– eldest daughter of Agamemnon

Ithaca

– island in the Ionian Sea

K

Kerosia

– Ithacan council meeting

L

Lacedaemon

– Sparta

Laertes

– Odysseus’s father

Leothoë

– daughter of King Altes of the Leleges, allies of Troy

Lemnos

– island in the Aegean Sea

Lycomedes

– king of Scyros

M

Medon

– Malian commander

Melanthius

– Ithacan lad, brother of Melantho

Melantho

– Ithacan girl, sister of Melanthius

Menelaus

– king of Sparta and younger brother of Agamemnon

Menestheus

– king of Athens

Mentor

– close friend of Odysseus

Mnemon

– servant of Achilles, employed to remind him not to fight any of Apollo’s sons

Mycenae

– most powerful city in Greece, situated in north-eastern Peloponnese

Myrine

– Helen’s old nursemaid

Myrmidons

– the followers of Achilles

N

Neaera

– Helen’s body slave

Neoptolemus

– son of Achilles and Deidameia

Nestor

– king of Pylos

O

Odysseus

– king of Ithaca

Omeros

– Ithacan boy

Orestes

– son of Agamemnon

P

Palamedes

– Nauplian prince

Paris

– Trojan prince, second eldest son of King Priam

Parnassus (Mount)

– mountain in central Greece and home of the Pythian oracle

Patroclus

– cousin of Achilles and captain of the Myrmidons

Peisandros

– Myrmidon spearman

Peloponnese

– southernmost landmass of Greek mainland

Penelope

– queen of Ithaca and wife of Odysseus

Pergamos

– the citadel of Troy

Perithous

– Mycenaean gate guard

Persephone

– goddess of the Underworld, wife of Hades

Philoctetes

– Malian archer who lit the pyre of Heracles, for which he was awarded the hero’s bow and arrows

Phronius

– Ithacan elder

Pleisthenes

– youngest son of Menelaus and Helen

Podarces

– Thessalian leader, brother of Protesilaus

Polites

– Thessalian warrior

Polymele

– Clytaemnestra’s body slave

Poseidon

– god of the sea

Priam

– king of Troy

Protesilaus

– Thessalian leader, brother of Podarces

Pyrrha

– daughter of Lycomedes

Pythoness

– high priestess of the Pythian oracle

S

Samos

– neighbouring island to Ithaca, also under the rule of Odysseus

Saronic Sea

– body of water between Attica and the Peloponnese

Scamander

– river on the Trojan plain

Scyros

– island east of Euboea

Simöeis

– river on the Trojan plain

Sparta

– city in the south-eastern Peloponnese

Sthenelaus

– companion of Diomedes

T

Talthybius

– squire to Agamemnon

Taphians

– pirate race from Taphos

Tecton

– friend of Iphigenia

Telamon

– former king of Salamis, father of the greater Ajax

Tenedos

– island off the coast of Ilium

Tenes

– king of Tenedos

Teucer

– famed archer, half-brother and companion to the greater Ajax

Thersites

– Aetolian hunchback

Thessaly

– region of northern Greece

Thoosa

– friend of Iphigenia

Troy

– chief city of Ilium, on the eastern seaboard of the Aegean

X

xenia

– the custom of friendship towards strangers

Z

Zacynthos

– southernmost of the Ionian islands under Laertes’s rule

Zeus

– the king of the gods

First published 2009 by Macmillan

First published in paperback 2010 by Pan Books This electronic edition published 2010 by Pan Books

an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

Basingstoke and Oxford

Associated companies throughout the world

www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-230-74005-1 PDF

ISBN 978-0-230-74004-4 EPUB

Copyright © Glyn Iliffe 2009

The right of Glyn Iliffe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Table of Contents

Title page

Author biography

Dedication page

Map

Contents

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

BOOK TWO

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen>

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

BOOK THREE

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

BOOK FOUR

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Glossary

Author's Note

Copyright page

Table of Contents

Title page

Author biography

Dedication page

Map

Contents

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

BOOK TWO

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen>

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

BOOK THREE

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

BOOK FOUR

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Glossary

Author's Note

Copyright page

Table of Contents

Title page

Author biography

Dedication page

Map

Contents

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

BOOK TWO

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen>

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

BOOK THREE

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

BOOK FOUR

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Glossary

Author's Note

Copyright page