The Armour of Achilles (13 page)
‘I see him,’ said Eperitus, narrowing his eyes slightly. ‘He’s in a hurry, but we’ll soon catch up with him.’
The Spartan guard raised his eyebrows a little, but knew enough about Eperitus’s senses not to question how he could see a man in a black cloak in the dead of night. He turned to Eperitus’s companion.
‘What’s this all about, Odysseus?’ he asked.
‘You’ll find out soon enough, Diocles,’ Odysseus replied, his voice smooth and reassuring. ‘And as a favour to an old friend, I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell Menelaus or Agamemnon we left the camp tonight.’
‘A few swallows of that Ithacan wine you brought us will help me forget,’ Diocles said with a wink, and a moment later Odysseus and Eperitus had slipped into the darkness.
Eperitus led the way, his excellent eyesight picking out the easiest path as they followed the skulking form of Palamedes across the plain. Every now and then Palamedes would stop and throw a glance over his shoulder, waiting a while as his eyes and ears probed the gloom before proceeding again. Each time Eperitus would raise his hand and he and Odysseus would remain still until it was safe to carry on. As they progressed in this silent, halting manner – the rain-sodden wool of their cloaks sticking to their skin and restricting their movements – Eperitus thought about Astynome. He had not seen her since that morning and she would be wondering where he was. Even the other soldiers would not be able to tell her his whereabouts, as none knew, and so eventually she would go to her own, cold bed to fall asleep, wondering about his absence while he was chasing phantoms across the plains of Ilium.
Eventually, they saw the ridge that marked the end of the undulating land between the Greek camp and Troy. Its flanks rose up as a black mass against the cloud-filled sky, while out of sight beyond it a slope led down to the fords of the Scamander and the familiar battle plain before the walls of Priam’s city. Many thousands of men had died there over the years of the siege and no Greek could approach the ridge without feeling a pang of terror at what lay beyond. But on top of it was a grove of laurel trees dedicated to Thymbrean Apollo, a neutral place where both Greeks and Trojans went to make sacrifices and offer prayers. It was a sanctuary where men of either side could attend to the god in the knowledge his enemies would not harm him. And it was towards the sacred circle of trees that Palamedes was now climbing. Odysseus and Eperitus followed, clambering up the slope as quickly as they could.
‘He’s going to leave a message for the Trojans,’ Odysseus hissed in Eperitus’s ear as they watched Palamedes enter the grove just ahead of them. ‘He must have been doing this for years.’
‘You know it means nothing unless we can find evidence,’ Eperitus responded.
‘Perhaps I should have brought Diomedes as a witness,’ Odysseus mused. ‘Or even Agamemnon himself . . .’
Eperitus grabbed his elbow and pulled him behind the cover of an outcrop of rock. Odysseus opened his mouth to speak, but Eperitus raised a finger to his lips and, a moment later, the sound of horses’ hooves broke the silence of the night. They came from the gentler slope on the Trojan side of the ridge, the footfalls of the animals loud on the wet rock and accompanied by snorts and the hushed voices of men. Slowly, the two Ithacans peered above the edge of the rock, just as a group of ten mounted men climbed into view a spear’s cast away. At their head was the tall and fearsome figure of Apheidas.
Eperitus grabbed at the sword hanging beneath his arm, but Odysseus seized his wrist and gave him a warning glare.
‘Are you mad? We’ll never defeat ten of them!’
‘I only want to defeat one,’ Eperitus replied, trying to pull his arm free of Odysseus’s iron grip.
‘Now’s not the time, Eperitus. But a time will come; trust in the gods for that.’
Apheidas gave orders to his escort, who began to spread out around the sacred grove. Two horsemen passed close to the outcrop of rock where Odysseus and Eperitus were hiding, but the Ithacans drew their hooded cloaks around themselves and were all but invisible in the stygian darkness. Then the Trojans moved further along the ridge, turning their eyes southwards in the direction of the Greek camp, and Eperitus dared to raise his head above the rocks once more. He saw his father dismount and hand the reins to one of his men, then stride to the entrance of the temple and disappear from sight. Odysseus had been right all along: Palamedes, for whatever reason, was passing information to the Trojans, and had probably been doing so for years. How he and Odysseus would convince the council of the fact, especially in view of the known animosity between Palamedes and Odysseus, was another matter. But that was of little concern to him now. He was thinking instead of Calchas’s sobering words, that part of him still loved Apheidas and that only with savage hatred would he be able to defeat him. And in spite of his instinct to fight his father, Eperitus knew the hatred that had created that instinct no longer burned in his veins.
They returned to the camp long after Palamedes, who had slipped away while Odysseus and Eperitus waited behind the outcrop of rock for the Trojan horsemen to leave. But where Eperitus had expected Odysseus to be glad that his suspicions had been proven beyond doubt, he found the king unnaturally angry. As they walked back through the darkness – the bank of cloud having rolled away and taken the drizzle with it – it seemed to Eperitus that the futility of the past ten years had snapped something inside his friend. Frustration at the length of the siege had given way to a hot rage, knowing that Palamedes’s treachery had delayed the defeat of Troy for so long, and with it his return home. One way or another, Odysseus promised, he would find the evidence to convict the traitor before the Council of Kings.
Quietly, Eperitus pulled aside the curtained entrance to his hut and peered inside. There was a dull red glow from the slumbering hearth and as he looked at Astynome’s bed he was pleased to see it unoccupied. But as he gazed across at his own bed, expecting to see her there waiting for his return, he noticed that the furs were empty and had not been slept in. He stepped inside and looked around, but there were no signs of the girl other than the black remains of a stew in the pot over the fire.
He dashed out of the hut to find Arceisius standing before him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
‘I tried to stay awake until you returned,’ he began. ‘But you were gone so long—’
‘Where is she?’ Eperitus demanded. ‘Where’s Astynome?’
‘They took her, sir,’ Arceisius replied, reverting instinctively to the formal in the face of his captain’s anger. ‘Agamemnon found out there was a slave who hadn’t been counted among the plunder and properly allotted . . .’
Eperitus ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Where is she now?’
‘You can’t get her back, sir.’
‘
Where is she now?
’
‘She’s in Agamemnon’s tent. As soon as he saw her beauty he claimed her for himself.’
Eperitus slumped back against the wall of the hut and stared up at the smattering of stars above. ‘That bastard!’ he cursed. ‘Why
him
? And how did Agamemnon find out about Astynome?’
T
HE
P
HRYGIAN
T
he following morning, Antiphus and Eurybates, whom Odysseus had sent to keep a watch on the eastern gate of Troy, rode into camp and reported that a large force of chariots, cavalry and spearmen had left the city and headed north in the direction of Dardanus. This final proof of Palamedes’s treachery stirred Odysseus to anger once more, though he was careful not to allow anyone other than Eperitus to know of his fury. Eperitus warned him not to be rash, reminding him that Palamedes was a trusted member of the council and if they were to expose him they must have evidence. With a dark face, Odysseus promised his friend he would have all the evidence he needed within two days, before Palamedes could realize there was no planned attack on Dardanus and that he had been tricked into revealing his treachery.
Eperitus did not see the king for the rest of the day. With the help of Arceisius, Polites and Antiphus he took the new recruits down to the beach and continued their preparation for war. The intense training was a convenient distraction from the dark thoughts that had kept him awake all night. His rage towards Eurylochus was ready to spill over into violence – and would have done, if Odysseus’s envious cousin had dared show his pig-like face in the Ithacan camp. But Eperitus’s loathing of Eurylochus was as nothing compared to his hatred for Agamemnon, the man who had plunged a dagger into his daughter’s heart, and had now taken his lover from him. In the three short weeks they had spent together Astynome’s powerful beauty and proud spirit had found a weakness in Eperitus’s callused, battle-hardened emotions. But now she was the slave of the most powerful man in Greece, a man whose life he had taken a solemn and binding oath to protect, though there was no one in the whole of Ilium he would rather send down to Hades. He had promised to protect Astynome, but she had been moved beyond any help he could give her.
After the setting of the sun had ended the day’s training, Eperitus joined Arceisius, Polites and Antiphus around a small fire, where they ate a meal of skewered fish and barley cakes. It was woeful fare compared to the food Astynome had cooked for them over the past two weeks, but there was the wine from Ithaca and soon Omeros joined them, his round, happy face immediately bringing cheer to their hearts. As the stars began to emerge overhead he sat his tortoiseshell lyre in his lap and sang them more of the songs he had learned at home. His fingers stroked the strings with skill and his soft, clear voice seemed to mingle with the fiercely bright embers that spiralled up from the flames, stilling the minds of his audience and unlocking memories of places far away and long ago. Eperitus thought again of Astynome, then of Iphigenia, her face suddenly clearer than he had remembered it in years. Inexplicably, his thoughts turned to Palamedes and the one mystery that remained to be explained. Why was he betraying his countrymen?
A hand fell on his shoulder, startling him. He turned to see Odysseus with his finger across his lips, gesturing for him to follow. Though it was mostly covered by the king’s double-cloak, Eperitus saw he held a large box under his arm.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked, leaving the circle of light, warmth and memory. ‘No one’s seen you all day.’
‘I’ve been in my hut, thinking,’ Odysseus answered.
‘And have you come up with anything?’
Odysseus could not prevent a self-satisfied smile. ‘We’re going to Palamedes’s tent. No, not to confront him – he’s the last man I’d expect to confess anything. At least not freely.’
‘Then what?’
‘You’ll see.’
They walked between the haphazard rows of tents until they reached the place where the Nauplians were concentrated. As with every other part of the camp, the soldiers here were gathered around blazing fires that chugged great columns of spark-filled smoke into the night sky. The different conversations combined into a low buzz as they swapped stories and washed their evening meals down with wine, no one seeming to notice the cloaked figures walking among them. Eventually, the two Ithacans came to Palamedes’s tent. Odysseus drew his hood over his head and sat cross-legged at the back of the nearest fire, where two dozen men were talking animatedly in strongly accented Greek.
‘What are we doing?’ Eperitus whispered, sitting next to Odysseus and looking around himself uncertainly.
‘Waiting for Palamedes, of course,’ Odysseus answered, giving a small flick of his head in the direction of the large tent close by. A light was shining within and the blurred outline of a man could be seen against the sailcloth walls as he moved around the interior.
‘We’re going to follow him again?’
Odysseus placed his fingers against his lips, then turned his face towards the fire and laughed quietly at some comment he had heard. Eperitus, not for the first time annoyed by his friend’s ability to keep his own counsel, crossed his arms and stared at the flames, wondering what was in the box in Odysseus’s lap. After what felt like a very long time, during which the gods seemed to have drawn a convenient veil over the presence of the two Ithacans, the entrance to Palamedes’s tent was pulled aside and the traitor stepped out. Odysseus’s face remained fixed on the fire, but Eperitus could not resist turning slightly to watch Palamedes slip quietly into the night.
He tugged at Odysseus’s cloak. ‘Come on. He’s heading up to the edge of the camp.’
‘Good. Let him go,’ Odysseus replied.
He waited a while longer, increasing Eperitus’s sense of consternation, then turned his head discreetly and eyed the large tent. The lights within had been extinguished, leaving only the dull glow of the hearth, the grey smoke from which was trailing up out of a vent in the top of the canvas. Odysseus took the box in his hands, glanced briefly at the Nauplians around the campfire, then stood and moved to the entrance of the tent. Eperitus followed.
‘You can’t go in,’ he hissed. ‘What if there are slaves?’
‘Palamedes has never owned slaves,’ Odysseus replied, pulling aside the entrance flap and peering into the half-light within. ‘He doesn’t think it right. Now, stay here and warn me if anyone comes.’
Eperitus grabbed the king’s shoulder. ‘What are you looking for, Odysseus? Surely you don’t expect to find anything in there.’
‘Everything depends on evidence, Eperitus,’ he said with a smile. ‘Everything.’
He ducked into the tent and was gone. Eperitus crouched down before the entrance and lowered his hood over his face, watching the nearest campfires intently. The men continued to chatter and laugh, becoming steadily drunker as they pulled at the necks of the wineskins they were sharing. Behind him, Eperitus could hear the small sounds of items being moved about, followed by what seemed like a scratching noise. But as Odysseus showed no signs of finishing his search and time dragged on, he grew more and more tense. Then the thing that he was dreading happened. A man rose from the nearest campfire, swayed slightly, then trudged in a direct line towards Palamedes’s tent. Eperitus snatched up the flap and prepared to whisper an urgent warning, just as the man came to a halt and hoisted up his tunic. He staggered a few more steps to the corner of the tent and began to urinate. The arc of water spattered noisily over the canvas and on to the hard earth, changing direction several times as the man leaned unsteadily from left to right. Eventually, the last drops fell on his sandals and – without a single glance at the crouching figure of Eperitus – he swung round and returned to his comrades.
A moment later Odysseus emerged.
‘I thought he’d never finish,’ he whispered.
‘Did you find anything?’ Eperitus asked as they skulked away from the tent.
‘Not a thing,’ Odysseus replied, sounding quite pleased about the fact.
It was then that Eperitus noticed the box had gone.
‘Odysseus!’ he exclaimed. ‘The box – you’ve left it behind.’
‘Box?’ Odysseus said. ‘What box?’
‘The box you brought with you.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Odysseus said, shrugging his shoulders.
And it was then that Eperitus noticed the dirt under Odys-seus’s fingernails.
The next day’s training was long and arduous with little to show for the effort Eperitus and the other veterans had invested in the replacements. For all the shouting and bullying of their instructors – kindness had no place in the training of warriors – the same men made the same mistakes again and again and many a beating was doled out to the worst handful. These were the ones who would be killed very early on or, if they were fortunate, might discover a latent fighting instinct that could just make warriors of them. Even Odysseus’s presence as he observed them from the top of a sand bank did little to encourage their performance. But as the westering sun turned the sky indigo and edged the thin clouds with gold, the king could tell there were some who were showing promise and many more for whom there was hope. These men would benefit from the days of training they had received, and would stand a good chance of surviving their first battle.
Later that night, he left his hut and walked to the place where the Trojan prisoners were kept. Their numbers had dwindled over the winter as the wealthier ones had been ransomed back to their families and many more had been sold to foreign slave traders. The few who remained were poor and either too weak or too rebellious to become slaves. Odysseus picked a dark-skinned man with black curly hair and a hooked nose whom he knew as a trouble causer and had him released into his custody. They walked to Eperitus’s hut and, flinging aside the flap, walked in.
‘Odysseus?’ Eperitus said, jumping from his bed in surprise. ‘Is something wrong? Who’s this?’
‘A Phrygian we captured last year,’ Odysseus answered. ‘All he’s ever done is eat our rations, so I’ve found another use for him.’
‘What do you want with me?’ the Trojan asked in good Greek, shrinking away from the Ithacan king, whose sword was pressed against his kidneys. ‘I am a prisoner and should be respected as such.’
‘You will be, my friend,’ Odysseus reassured him, patting his shoulder. ‘In fact, I’ve decided to let you go. Eperitus and I are going to take you beyond the fringe of the camp and set you free.’
‘Free?’ said Eperitus. ‘Why in the names of the gods would we want to do that?’
‘Yes, what reason could you have for releasing me?’ the prisoner asked.
‘I need you to take a message to King Priam.’
Eperitus narrowed his eyes. ‘
Priam?
That would be treason, Odysseus, and you know it. And what could you possibly have to say to Priam?’
‘You know I’m no traitor, Eperitus,’ he answered. ‘But I need your help, so you’ll just have to trust me.’
He gave the prisoner a clay tablet and told him to tuck it into the folds of his tunic. Then, once Eperitus had dressed and slung his sword and scabbard under his arm, the three men left the hut and made their way up the slope to the top of the ridge. The Trojan led the way, his face suddenly bright with hope, followed by Odysseus and Eperitus. Before they reached the edge of the camp, Odysseus stopped them and ordered Eperitus and the prisoner to change cloaks.
‘Eperitus, I want you to cross the ditch further up and wait for me among the trees where we spoke to Calchas. Diocles still has the evening watch, so I’ll keep him distracted while you make your way over. And you,’ he added, placing a large hand on the Phrygian’s shoulder, ‘pull your hood down over your face and stay behind me. Don’t speak, even if spoken to. Do you understand?’
The Phrygian nodded uncertainly and glanced at Eperitus. Eperitus ignored him and set off up the slope towards the earthen ramparts that edged the ditch. Odysseus watched his friend pull himself up the rampart and cross its broad parapet on his stomach, finally disappearing into the ditch beyond. Then, aware that he could be executed if he was caught escorting a prisoner from the camp carrying a message to Priam, Odysseus gave the Phrygian a warning look and approached the guards on the causeway. There were three of them, cloaked against the cold night air and carrying shields and spears.
‘Diocles,’ he called. ‘Still on watch?’
‘Someone has to do it,’ the Spartan grumbled. ‘Not planning to follow Palamedes again, are you? He passed through a while ago, if you are.’
Odysseus shook his head and indicated the Phrygian with his thumb.
‘Not tonight. One of my lads has been having dreams about his father. Worried he’s dead, so I said I’d take him to Calchas to see if he could interpret the dreams. He used to be good at that.’
‘Used to be, maybe,’ Diocles said. ‘Not any more, though, if you ask me. Not with his wine-addled brain. No harm in trying, I suppose.’
He waved the other guards aside and Odysseus crossed, followed closely by the Phrygian. They moved to the cover of the trees and moments later were met by Eperitus.
‘Lead us to the ravine,’ Odysseus ordered. ‘To the place where the patrols usually cross on their way back. And keep quiet – Calchas will be asleep near here and Diocles says Palamedes is around again. The last thing I want is for either of them to notice us.’
The ravine was a short march to the south-east of the camp, where rainwater from the eastern mountains had cut a path down to the sea. They found it with ease in the faint moonlight. It opened up as a rocky shelf before their feet, with a steep drop into a dried-up river bed. A little to their right, the shelf fell away and was replaced by a rubble-strewn slope that led down to a bulge in the gully below. In the winter when the river was full this was one of the few places where it could be forded with ease, but all that could be heard now as they stood in the semi-darkness was a slow trickle of water in the shadows below.
