The Armour of Achilles (31 page)
‘Yes, down by the rocks at the northern end of the bay.’
Odysseus raised an eyebrow. ‘That should be something to behold. But for now I need to rest this wound and get some sleep. I suggest you two do the same: even if Achilles settles his differences with Agamemnon tomorrow and rejoins the fight as you say he will, Eperitus, it’s going to be another hard day for us all. Goodnight.’
T
HE
A
RMOUR OF
A
CHILLES
O
dysseus placed his hands on Eperitus’s shoulders and shook him gently.
‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not long until dawn.’
‘What of it?’ Eperitus replied, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘Where are we going?’
But Odysseus was already at the door of his hut, beckoning for him to follow. Eperitus kicked off his blanket and dressed quickly, throwing his cloak about his shoulders and grabbing his sword. The brightest stars were still shining overhead as they stepped out, but a faint light was infusing the skies to the east and turning them a deep blue. With Odysseus leading the way, the two men jogged between the tents and campfires where the hunched forms of sleeping men were snoring heavily, ignorant of the groans of the wounded that still undulated from different parts of the camp like the wailing of lost souls. Soon they reached the beach where the Myrmidon ships were drawn up and found the wooden bier on which Patroclus’s body had been laid. It was empty.
Odysseus gave Eperitus an inquisitive glance as they paused to look at the discarded shroud and the white cloak that had covered the body. Then he set off again, kicking up gouts of sand as he sprinted past the tall, black prows of the galleys.
It was not until they passed the last Myrmidon ship and saw the jagged rocks that marked the southernmost edge of the bay, that they spotted Achilles, a dark shape lying close to the water’s edge. Patroclus’s pale, naked body was with him and the prince lay prostrate across his friend’s chest, shaking with tears as the waves washed repeatedly over his outstretched legs. Odysseus ducked down behind a low boulder and signalled for Eperitus to join him.
As the rock was only a short distance from the shore they could see Achilles clearly, and for a while they crouched in silence listening to his heavy sobs amid the consolatory hushing of the waves. The sky grew gradually lighter and objects that before had been black and indistinct now became colourless shapes in the greyness. A gentle mist had formed over the surface of the sea and was threatening to wash inland when Eperitus seized Odysseus by the shoulder and pointed at a spot close to the shore, where two black rocks jutted upwards like the broken pillars of an ancient gateway.
‘Do you see it?’ he whispered.
Odysseus nodded. There was a movement in the water, a frantic splashing as if someone were drowning. It grew quickly, rising up in a column like an inverted whirlpool that swirled round and round, fast at first but getting steadily slower as it began to take shape. Then, as the first hint of dawn crept into the sky and brought small dashes of colour back to the world, the two men were amazed to see the figure of a young woman forming from the water, her translucent arms reaching up to clutch at the air. And as she caught the light in her fingertips the liquid became flesh, transforming the hands and arms first, followed by the head, breasts and stomach until they were staring at a girl of little more than twenty years old, standing waist-high in the waves.
Slowly, she lowered her arms and stared at Achilles, who remained oblivious to her presence. Her hair was blond like his and flowed over her shoulders and down her back to run in rivulets over her buttocks; her skin was as white as ivory and her face had all the beauty of unblemished youth, but in her sea-green eyes sat all the knowledge and wisdom of an immortal. She walked ashore, unhindered by the waves because she was part of them, her lower body taking shape from the water as she moved and changing into flesh until she stood naked on the sand, looking down at her son.
‘This is not the time for mourning, Achilles,’ she said.
Achilles snatched up the sword that lay in the sand beside Patroclus’s body and spun round. Seeing his mother, he dropped the weapon and leapt to his feet, throwing his cloak about her nakedness before taking her into his arms. Eperitus almost expected her to dissolve into a shower of spray as the prince embraced her and laid his head on her shoulders, but her flesh was as real as his own and she kissed his head and ran her long fingers through his hair.
‘Restrain your grief until you have avenged Patroclus,’ she whispered. ‘When Ajax brought him to you, you swore before all the gods that you would not let his death go unpunished; that you would make Hector pay for it with his own life. Now there can be no turning back, my son. You have chosen the path of doom and so you must make amends with Agamemnon and take up your spear once more. But even though I dipped you into the River Styx as a baby in the vain hope of making you an immortal like myself, you can still suffer the pain of wounds. What is more, the heel by which I held you remains mortal, the one place where the bite of a weapon can end your life. And so I have fulfilled my promise and brought you new armour – made by Hephaistos himself.’
She swept her arm across the waves that were lapping the beach and suddenly they retreated before her, rolling back to reveal a pile of metal in the damp sand that gleamed and glittered as the sea water drained from its ornately carved surfaces. At the same moment the first molten glimmer of the sun topped the distant mountains to the east and its light touched on the heap of gold, silver and bronze, making it blaze as if consumed by tongues of red fire. Wide-eyed with awe, Odysseus and Eperitus clutched at the rough edges of the boulder and pulled themselves up to get a better view, not noticing as the sharp stone cut at their tightly grasping fingers. Achilles, too, was stunned at the sight. He released his mother and took a step towards the collection of armour. Then he staggered forward – the wet sand sucking at his bare feet – and lifted the golden helmet in both hands, raising it above his head so that the shaggy red mane of its plume dripped salt water on to his chest. His mouth was open and his jaw quivered as if he wanted to speak but, instead, he fell to his knees, laid the helmet down reverently in the sand and lifted up the tin greaves, admiring the life-like curves and the crested waves that had been engraved over every surface.
After a moment he set them down beside the helmet and took hold of the heavy cuirass, which had been perfectly shaped to mimic his own muscle-bound torso, even down to the circles of his nipples and the chute of his navel. The bronze was so highly burnished that he could see his face reflected clearly in the chest muscles, framed by lightening skies that were traced with pink cloud. The red-rimmed eyes that looked back at him had forgotten their grief and become consumed with desire, and the sight of them forced him to release the breastplate and look away.
But he did not look far, for his eyes fell upon the large round shield that stood behind the other pieces of armour, its lower lip buried in the sand but otherwise without any visible support. If the helmet, greaves and breastplate were works beyond Achilles’s wildest imaginings, the shield was beyond his comprehension. He stared at it dumbfounded, letting his eyes feast on the intricate designs that adorned it, designs that moved with a life of their own. At its centre, forming the boss, was the disc of the Earth, covered with mountains, forests and rivers depicted in silver; encircling this was the Sea, dotted with islands and populated with giant marine creatures that constantly plunged into the waves before rising up again, spewing water. Bounding Earth and Sea were the heavenly bodies of the Sun, Moon and Stars. As the golden Sun set into the Sea the silver Moon would rise and the constellations that Zeus had set in the sky would twinkle and gleam, fading only when the Sun rose again.
The central circle was ringed by four more circles, each one filled with designs that moved in cyclical patterns. The second circle was divided into two halves, on which were depicted two cities: one filled with celebrations and banqueting as a wedding procession moved through its golden streets; the other in turmoil as besieging and defending armies wrought bloody havoc among each other’s ranks. In the first, young women in bridal robes of ivory danced to the music of reed pipe and tortoiseshell lyre; in the second, larger-than-life figures of Athena and Ares fought amid the two armies, slaying with impunity while all around them mortal warriors struggled over the armour of their dead and dying victims.
The third circle showed, on one side, a large meadow being ploughed by teams of oxen, where the golden soil was being turned black by the plough blades, and on the other a rich estate filled with vineyards and fields full of tall wheat. In the latter, golden vines grew on silver frames and brought forth grapes made from gleaming jet; the whole was surrounded by a fence made of tin and an irrigation ditch that flowed with blue enamel. The fruit was being carried away by teams of young men and girls as they danced to the music of a lyre, while in the fields men were harvesting the wheat with sickles and others were tying them into sheaves, all under the close supervision of a majestic king.
In one half of the fourth circle was a herd of ten cattle, depicted in gold with horns of tin. They were accompanied by four drovers, also in gold, and nine dogs that barked as the cows were driven down to a river to drink. But as Achilles watched, a pair of lions leapt out from the rushes and brought down the first animal, tearing out its throat and then feasting on its entrails as the drovers and their dogs tried in vain to scare them off. In the other half were great flocks of sheep with ivory fleeces, grazing in a wide valley where a farm and several sheep pens were depicted in silver.
The fifth circle of the shield showed a vast dance. Young men held the hands of pretty girls as they circled each other in time to the music of a lyre. The maidens wore beautiful silver chitons and flowers in their hair, which Hephaistos had fashioned with minute threads of gold and tin. As for the men, their skin gleamed as if oiled and they wore silver belts with golden daggers. Large crowds of older men and women watched in delight, as if filled with memories of their own youth. Finally, the concentric circles of the shield were bound by the Ocean Stream, which marks the end of all things.
Achilles plucked it from the sand and looped his arm through its leather straps, finding its weight surprisingly light. As he turned, the shield caught the rising sun and its ever-moving designs were displayed in their full glory to Odysseus and Eperitus.
‘In the name of Athena!’ Odysseus gasped, his eyes widening as they took in the impossible detail of the shield’s design.
Not caring that Achilles and Thetis would know he had been spying on them, he stood and crossed the beach towards the Phthian prince. Achilles was momentarily surprised to see him, but instead of admonishing the Ithacan he ran towards him with the shield on his arm.
‘Look at it, Odysseus!’ he declared, turning it this way and that in the sunlight. ‘Can you
believe
such a thing? Hephaistos made it, and as Zeus is my witness, I swear its equal has never been seen on earth or Olympus.’
Odysseus nodded his head in agreement but said nothing, too absorbed by the continuous movement of the figures on the shield. And the more he looked the more he sensed that the scenes depicted his own life, as if the shield had been meant not for Achilles at all, but
himself
. Among the islands that populated the depiction of the Sea, he could clearly make out the shapes of Ithaca and its larger cousin, Samos. And what were the wedding scene and the besieged city meant to represent but his own marriage to Penelope, followed by the attack on Ithaca and the defeat of the Taphian invaders? The king in the third circle could only be himself, presiding over the ten plentiful years that Ithaca had enjoyed under his rule. And as for the cattle in the fourth circle, there was one animal for each year of the war and the tenth – which was being seized by the two lions as he watched – represented the final victory of the Greeks over Troy. The dancers in the fifth circle surely represented the celebrations on his return to Ithaca. And yes, there amongst the crowd was a woman and her son – Penelope and Telemachus – both depicted in gold to pick them out from the other onlookers who were shown in silver.
But as he looked at the great shield and the pride with which Achilles was displaying it, he realized his fantasies were but foolish imaginings. Surely the armour was beautiful – as beautiful an object of metal as Helen was of flesh – and his heart was filled with desire for it, telling him that here was the outward show of greatness Palamedes had predicted he would never possess. And there was no doubt in his mind that the mere sight of it would spark a similar lust in all fighting men, whether enemies of Achilles or friends, such was the lure of all things that came from the gods, and Odysseus had almost been drawn in by its promise of glory. But he also remembered how he had once tried to make Helen his wife; and as foolish as that thought had been twenty years ago, so he knew it was a foolish desire to want Achilles’s shield now. For though the shield was magnificent, the mere possession of it did not bring a man glory or honour. Such lustre could only come from great deeds, and unless a man could first kill Achilles and take the shield from his dead body it was nothing more than a splendid token.
T
HE
F
EUD
E
NDED
O
dysseus and Eperitus helped Achilles on with his new armour then followed him along the beach as he called out at the top of his voice, summoning the Greeks to assemble. The last of the night had been chased away and powder-blue skies now formed an endless ceiling over the world, but the calm of the heavens was not mirrored for long in the sprawling camp below. From every point, soldiers left their cold breakfasts and herded down to the meeting place on the shore opposite Agamemnon’s tent, where the clamour of their excited voices grew until it drowned out the cawing of the many seagulls and the gentle crashing of the waves upon the sand. Though they were exhausted by their exertions and many of them bore wounds from the battles of the previous days, the Greeks were suddenly filled with confidence at the appearance of Achilles. The fact that he had left Patroclus’s bier could only mean he was ready to put aside his grief and go to war, and the multitude of warriors shared his eagerness for vengeance in Trojan blood. But if the prospect of following the prince into battle had loosened their tongues, the magnificence of his armour set them racing.
‘It’s the work of a god,’ Ajax said as he joined Odysseus and Eperitus on one of the benches being set out hastily by Agamemnon’s personal guards. He was accompanied by Teucer and Little Ajax, whose pet snake hung about his shoulders and hissed at the Ithacans. ‘The breastplate and helmet alone are beyond the skill of any man, but that shield!’ He gave a whistle and shook his head disbelievingly.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ Odysseus agreed without removing his eyes from the object as it hung on Achilles’s arm. ‘And yet—’
‘In the name of Ares!’ Ajax exclaimed, placing his hands on his knees with his elbows out and leaning forward. ‘The designs on the shield – they’re . . . they’re
moving
! From the top of the beach I thought it was the sunlight playing on the silver and gold, but they’re actually
moving
. How is that possible?’
Little Ajax squinted doubtfully at the shield, and then, for the first time since Eperitus had known him, a look of wonder transformed his mean features. He turned to Teucer, who was huddled in close by Great Ajax’s enormous frame, but the archer’s gaze was transfixed by the shield and he paid no attention to the Locrian king.
‘Teucer, I forgive you for waking me while I was with Tecmessa,’ Ajax said, placing a thick arm about the scrawny shoulders of his half-brother. ‘Just to see such a thing was worthwhile, and the more I look at it . . .’
He paused and frowned, staring hard at the shield with a mixture of surprise and growing recognition. At the same moment the crowds of soldiers standing around the benches where the kings, princes and other leaders were sitting parted. Agamemnon entered through the gap, sceptre in hand and followed by Menelaus and Nestor. The King of Men threw a quick glance towards Achilles – who remained with his back to the assembly, staring out at the rollers as they folded in on the shore – then leaned in towards his companions and spoke in a low voice.
Eperitus gave Agamemnon a contemptuous sneer and turned to Ajax.
‘You were going to say something about Achilles’s shield,’ he prompted.
Ajax blinked as if waking from a dream. ‘Your eyes are the best in the army, Eperitus,’ he said, taking the Ithacan by the arm and pointing at the shield. ‘Tell me – does one of those islands look like Salamis to you?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Salamis is your kingdom, not mine, and I’ve only seen it from the western side.’
‘Never mind,’ Ajax said dismissively. ‘But look at that city under siege – it’s Teuthrania, the city I sacked where I took Tecmessa as my captive. And the next scene is of my marriage to Tecmessa – and that’s our son, Eurysaces! Look, all of you: it’s as if the shield was made for
me
and not Achilles at all!’
He stood up as if he intended to claim the object there and then, but Odysseus seized his wrist and pulled him back down again.
‘Don’t be a fool, Ajax,’ he hissed, staring at the giant warrior with a strange look in his eye. ‘Eperitus and I saw Thetis bring the armour to Achilles. Besides, the shield could just as well be showing Achilles’s marriage to Deidameia, whom he wedded back on Scyros. Why should it be you and Tecmessa when it could easily be Menelaus and Helen, or even myself and Penelope? And which of us hasn’t laid siege to one city or another?’
Ajax shook Odysseus’s hand off and stared at him.
‘You’re wrong, Odysseus. This armour was meant for me, I can feel it in here.’
He tapped his fist against his chest.
‘Ajax, listen to me. The armour has some sort of enchantment about it – I felt its pull myself, only a short while ago. But it was made for Achilles, at the command of his immortal mother. Since when have the gods lavished gifts like this on ordinary warriors like you or me?’
‘I’m no ordinary warrior, Odysseus. I’m the equal of any god in battle – even Zeus himself !’
The others drew back, Little Ajax frowning and hissing through his teeth at his namesake’s blasphemy. But Great Ajax just glared at them contemptuously.
‘Fools! Superstitious old women have less fear of the gods than you do. But I tell you the truth, I’ve never needed an Olympian’s help in any battle I’ve ever fought. Even the great Achilles calls on their help before each fight, but not
me
! And if any of them dared face me in mortal form then I would master them by my own strength alone.’
Eperitus shook his head. ‘I remember a short while ago you thought you’d met your match in Hector. Now you’re saying you could beat the father of the gods himself ?’
‘A comment made in a moment of exhaustion and weakness,’ Ajax replied, scowling. ‘I have the skill to beat anyone, Hector included, and the fact the gods have sent this armour to me proves it.’
‘But the armour belongs to Achilles,’ Odysseus reminded him. ‘Unless you think you can take it from him.’
Ajax looked at him thoughtfully, then shook his head.
‘There’s no treachery in my heart, if that’s what you’re implying, Odysseus. But one way or another, I tell you the armour is meant for me.’
At that moment Agamemnon stepped forward and raised his arms for silence.
‘Achilles,’ he called out in a stern voice, ‘you have called us to assembly. State your reasons and be quick about it; the rest of us have a war to fight.’
Achilles did not answer immediately. He took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the sea and the feel of the breeze against his face. Then he turned to look at Agamemnon and for the first time the King of Men saw the shield in all its glory. His eyes widened and his sceptre – which had also been made by Hephaistos – almost fell from his fingers.
‘Agamemnon, son of Atreus, king of Mycenae,’ Achilles began, the red plume of his helmet flickering lightly in the breeze. ‘It was your decision to take Briseis from me that caused this feud between us. And yet I would rather the girl had died first and my anger had never been provoked, for it has brought calamity on the Greeks and death to Patroclus, my beloved friend. But these things have happened and I have taken a solemn oath that I will not bury Patroclus until I have avenged his death with Hector’s blood, so for my part I declare this feud over. If you will accept it, my spear is at your service once more, King of Men.’
His words were greeted by a ringing cheer from the watching soldiers. Those who were fully armed clashed the shafts of their spears against their shields, while even their leaders – Ajax, Odysseus and Eperitus among them – rose from the benches and shouted their joy at Achilles’s announcement. Only one man remained seemingly unmoved, though there was a glimmer of a smile on his thin lips.
‘You aren’t the only one, Achilles, to place the blame for our feud squarely on my shoulders,’ Agamemnon declared, staring round at the gathered men, many of whom looked down at the sand as his eyes passed over them. ‘Every man here was angry at me for driving you into your hut and away from the fighting, though none dared voice it. And yet I tell you the fault for our rift was not mine. It belongs with the gods, who blinded me with folly in order to heap more misery and suffering upon mankind. But as there can be little doubt that the immortals have betrayed me, or that they have shown you their favour’ – he pointed at the shield and his eyes lingered a moment on the constantly moving designs – ‘I will honour the gifts Odysseus promised you on my behalf. Let them be brought to you now – Briseis first – so that the whole army can witness my offer of reparation and the end of our feud.’
The assembly raised their voices in agreement, but Achilles stepped forward and drew his sword, holding it up like a sceptre.
‘Let the gifts wait until after we have driven the Trojans back to their city and Hector’s blood is soaking the soil of Ilium.’
The voices were louder in response, Ajax’s chief among them, but when Odysseus stepped forward and took the staff from Agamemnon, they soon fell away again.
‘Stem your anger, Achilles. We don’t all have your strength and our limbs aren’t as fresh as yours. The men must eat before they go out to battle and the gods have to be honoured with sacrifice for ending your quarrel. Agamemnon has acknowledged that the immortals overruled his own judgement and has offered reparation; you should have the grace to accept it. The Trojans will still be there once the right customs have been observed, and then we can all make them pay for the suffering they’ve inflicted on us.’
H
ECTOR’S
D
ILEMMA
H
ector stood looking at his shadow as it lay across the crushed grass, pointing like a long, black finger towards the shining sea. He wore the armour he had stripped from Patroclus’s body, the magnificent breastplate, shield and helmet that for many years he had longed to pull from the corpse of Achilles himself. About his waist was the purple belt Ajax had given to him after their inconclusive duel. They were symbols of honour, won in combat against men whose spears had brought many a good warrior down into the dust, and yet they gave him no pleasure as he awaited the slaughter of another day’s fighting.
Aeneas and Apheidas stood to his left, Paris and Deiphobus to his right, their own shadows thin and black before the bright sunshine. On the plain between them and the walls of the Greek camp were strewn the bodies of the men who had been slain in the previous days’ battles. They lay singly or heaped one upon another, hardly recognizable as the living, breathing, articulate beings they had been only a little while before. Now, scattered groups of vultures picked at their dead eyes or probed open wounds with their hooked beaks, occasionally flapping their large wings to give themselves leverage as they tore off strips of flesh. Elsewhere, packs of wild dogs buried their sharp teeth into exposed limbs and torsos, ripping open stomachs and pulling out long, purple entrails that the other dogs would then pounce on in a frenzy. Hector watched them impassively. He could send groups of soldiers to chase the vile creatures away, but what good would it do? The animals would soon come back and he would only be tiring his already exhausted men further.
He sighed audibly and Aeneas, who had been fidgeting impatiently, took this as a sign that the debate could begin.
‘Any moment now, those gates are going to open and the entire Greek army will come pouring out again,’ he said. ‘And if they find us still here, they’re going to massacre us. It’s a long way back, Hector; we need to return to Troy with the army intact, while we still can.’
‘Aeneas is right,’ Paris added, tracing his finger along the scar that crossed his face from forehead to beard. ‘The men are exhausted, but worse than that, they’re
afraid
. With Patroclus dead, Achilles is going to want revenge.
He
’ll be leading the Greeks this time, not Agamemnon, and if he was difficult enough to fight before he’ll be like a lion among lambs now. Face it, Brother, for all our efforts we’ve fallen short of victory. I say let’s return to the safety of the city and save our forces for another day.’
Hector folded his hands behind his back and watched one of the broken forms on the battlefield wave a weak arm at a vulture, which hopped out of reach and waited for the arm to flop back down before closing in again. Aeneas and Paris were right, of course. Morale was low with the certainty that Achilles was going to return to battle, so one fiercely pressed attack could break the army’s will to fight and force them into open retreat across the plain. Better perhaps to turn back now and find shelter behind the city walls, where they would be safe and could rebuild their strength. With new allies getting nearer by the day – the Amazons led by Queen Penthesilea from the east and the Aethiopes under their king, Memnon, from the sun-parched south – it would not be long before they could sally out again and trap the Greeks in the middle, there to be annihilated.
But allies would demand a high price for bringing victory. And Hector still had his pride: marriage to Andromache may have softened his youthful ambitions, but it had not taken away his warrior’s lust for glory. He wanted to defeat the Greeks himself, and, most of all, he wanted to face Achilles and take vengeance for the murder of Andromache’s father and brothers.
‘The walls will keep us safe, no doubt about that,’ said Apheidas, staring out at the carnage on the plain. ‘But they won’t send the Greeks from our shores or give us victory. Our only chance of that is to stand our ground here and defeat them, or to die in the attempt. If we go back now, Troy may hold out for another couple of years – but the Greeks will triumph in the end. Hector knows that.’
Like the other commanders, Apheidas was ignorant of the new allies Priam had won over, so Hector was able to ignore the provocation in his tone. But the young and impetuous Deiphobus could not.
‘Apheidas is right. The only way we can save Helen is to destroy the Greeks now, while we have a chance. We’ve fought hard and lost many men, but so have they. All it needs is for one of us to kill Achilles and the rest of them will fold.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Hector answered, turning to his comrades. ‘Get rid of Achilles and the rest is a matter of time. But who is going to kill him? Will you, little brother?’
Deiphobus blinked in surprise. He had fully expected Hector, the bulwark of Troy and its greatest hope, to see the sense of his argument and announce he was going to face Achilles at last. The notion that he would accept the advice of Paris and Aeneas and
retreat
had never occurred to him. It was almost as bad as the thought of his beautiful sister-in-law, whom he had loved since the first moment he had seen her, being trapped inside the city walls for more long years or being taken back to Sparta by Menelaus.
‘I will kill him!’
The five men turned to see a short, stocky warrior strolling towards them. His shield was slung across his back and he clutched two spears in his right hand, while his helmet dangled by its chin strap from the fingers of his left.
‘Podes!’ Hector exclaimed, rushing to embrace his friend. But the next moment he pulled away and stared hard into the man’s dark eyes. ‘What’s wrong? Why have you left Troy when I gave strict orders for you to stay there with the militia? And who’s protecting my wife and son?’
‘Andromache’s my sister, don’t forget, and Astyanax is my nephew – do you think I’d leave them if they weren’t safe? The fact is they never needed my protection in the first place and that’s why I’m here. I’m sick of waiting on the walls with frail old men and boys too young to fight, listening to rumours and watching the wounded and captured streaming back through the Scaean Gate. I’ve come to avenge the evil the Greeks have done to our beloved homeland – and to fight at
your
side, Hector, as I have done in every battle up until now.’
‘That all changed when Achilles killed King Eëtion and your brothers,’ Hector declared, his gravelly voice strained. ‘You’re the last of Andromache’s family. If you die, it’ll destroy her, so think of your sister rather than yourself and return to the city at once.’
‘No!
You
’re the one who should go back to Troy and let the rest of
us
do the fighting for a change. You never give yourself any respite in this war, my friend, no doubt because you don’t trust us to hold off the Greeks without you. But if you fall, then Troy will fall with you, and Andromache and Astyanax’s fate will be sealed! Go back to them now and let me face Achilles – it’s my duty and my heart-felt desire to avenge the deaths of my father and brothers, whom he slew in his vile and ungodly anger at Thebe.’
As the last word left Podes’s lips, the different gates along the Greek wall flew open with a crash and streams of men began pouring across the causeways. First came the cavalry, the horsemen quickly assembling on each flank and the chariots forming a long line opposite the waiting Trojans. Hordes of archers and slingers followed, running on to the plain to create a thick, disorderly screen of skirmishers. Then came the dense ranks of heavily armoured spearmen, their bronze and leather equipment clanking as they drew themselves up into well-disciplined oblongs before the ditch. The sun sparkled on the breastplates and helmets of the assembled army, but from the armour of one man in particular it blazed like a great beacon, too fierce to look at. The red plume of his helmet fluttered in the ever-present wind like a jet of fresh blood, while on his arm was a shield as brilliant as the face of the sun.
The Trojans looked on their foes with dismay. Their numbers seemed hardly diminished by the days of hard and terrible fighting that had taken such a toll among their own ranks, and though none could see his face, every man knew that the warrior with the bright armour in the leading chariot really was Achilles this time, fresh to the battle and seething with the desire for revenge. Hector looked from the resurgent Greeks to the faces of his own men, standing in their companies behind the small group of their commanders, and he knew what he had to do.
‘We cannot fight them,’ he announced, though his heart was heavy and he had to force the words from his lips. ‘The army’s exhausted and doesn’t share your enthusiasm for this fight, Podes, despite its skill and courage. I will speak to Agamemnon and call a day’s truce to gather the dead again, and then we’ll withdraw to the city during the night.’
Podes spat in the dust and glowered his disapproval at his brother-in-law.
‘Back down now and all is lost,’ he warned. ‘You’re a greater man than that, Hector, and Troy is tired of surviving to fight another day. You must lead us to victory – or say farewell to everything you love.’
‘He’s right,’ Apheidas agreed, clutching at the hilt of his sword and looking at the prince sternly. ‘You’ll not get another chance like this.’
Hector thought of the Amazons and the Aethiopes who were drawing closer to the city with each passing day and shook his head as he turned to face his men.
‘I’ve made my decision. I’m going to parley with Agamemnon and—’
‘Podes!’ Aeneas shouted.
They turned to see Podes leap on to Hector’s chariot and shove the surprised driver back into the dirt. He seized the reins and with a shout sent the horses leaping across the plain.
‘Stop him!’ Hector ordered.
At once Aeneas took up his spears and dashed forward, calling to the driver of his own chariot. The man was quick to react and a moment later Aeneas had jumped on to the car and was pursuing Andromache’s brother towards the Greek lines. As he watched the chariots speed across the battlefield, Hector knew there was no chance now of a truce and little hope of an unmolested return to the safety of Troy.
‘Apheidas,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘prepare your cavalry to cover the army’s retreat, if need be. Paris, Deiphobus – pray to the gods and call on all your courage. We’re going to attack.’
Raising his spear above his head, he turned to the ranks of skirmishers and spearmen whose tired faces looked at him with grim expectation. Then he thrust the weapon towards the Greek lines and, with a great shout that sent the vultures flying slowly and awkwardly up from the bodies of the dead, the army advanced.
Out on the plain, Aeneas quickly overhauled Podes – whose horses were struggling to obey his unfamiliar voice – and shouted for to him to turn back. Podes ignored him, but as Aeneas prepared to cut across and force him away from the Greeks, Achilles spurred his own chariot forward and came rushing towards the two men at a fearful pace. Knowing there was no escape, Aeneas hurled his spear at the approaching warrior, only to watch Achilles raise his shield and swat it aside as if it were nothing more than a toy arrow fired by a child. The Greek’s reply was rapid and accurate, the point of his heavy spear punching through the oxhide layers of Aeneas’s shield and tearing it from his arm. A storm of arrows from the Locrian archers followed and as Aeneas ducked behind the low screen of his chariot his driver steered the horses away and drove them back towards the Trojan lines.
‘Achilles!’ Podes shouted, bringing Hector’s chariot to a halt and jumping down to the ground. ‘Achilles, you murderous dog! I am Podes, son of King Eëtion and brother to his seven sons, all of whom you murdered when you sacked my home city of Thebe. I have come to face you and take revenge for their deaths.’
‘Brave but foolish,’ Achilles replied, stepping down from his chariot and retrieving his spear from the shattered remains of Aeneas’s shield. On either side of him the Greek and Trojan armies were advancing at a run, the heavy tramp of their feet shaking the foundations of the earth as the sky above was darkened by the exchange of their arrows and spears. ‘Your father and brothers fought well, but what makes you think you are any better than they were? You’d have honoured their memory more by preserving your life at home, not seeking death from the same man who sent them to Hades.’
‘Damn you!’
Podes hurled his spear with a grunt at the Phthian prince. Achilles fell to one knee and raised his shield over his head, letting the point of the weapon glance across its surface. Then, as Podes’s eyes fell on the shield and were mesmerized with awe by its ceaselessly shifting designs, Achilles rushed forward and thrust his ash spear into his chest. The Trojan cried out as the sharp bronze pierced his scaled armour and punctured his heart, then fell in a heap as his soul rushed down to join his father and brothers in the Underworld.
‘No!’ Hector cried out.
He had sprinted far ahead of the army, his speed unchecked by his heavy armour as he rushed to save his friend from his folly. But despite his great strength he had not been fast enough. As he watched Achilles pull his spear from Podes’s chest and Podes fall dead to the ground, he knew he had failed not only his closest companion but also his wife, whose entire family had now been murdered by one man. In an instant he recalled that long night only a short time ago when Andromache had been unable to sleep for grief at the death of her father and brothers; and as she loved Podes above them all, how much deeper would her suffering be now?
