The Armour of Achilles (34 page)
Achilles took the proffered sword and, with a snarl of hatred, began wading towards the opposite bank of the Scamander. Odysseus and Eperitus followed, while behind them the massed ranks of the victorious Greeks came streaming down the slopes to the fords, which could once again be crossed in safety. As Achilles stepped out on to the plain before Troy, the stamp of hooves and a loud cry made him look over his shoulder to see Peisandros driving the prince’s chariot into the water. A few moments later he called the team to a halt beside Achilles and jumped down.
‘Your spear, my lord,’ he said.
Achilles took the thick, monstrously long weapon and smiled grimly as he stared up at its broad head.
‘Wait here,’ he ordered.
Then, balancing its familiar weight in his hand, he ran towards the sun-bleached walls of Troy where Hector waited for him, surrounded by a ring of flowers that the women of the city were still tossing to him from the battlements. Peisandros stayed where he was, stroking the noses of Xanthus and Balius, but Odysseus and Eperitus ran after the prince. They were soon within bowshot of the walls, where Achilles came to a halt and planted his spear in the ground. The early afternoon sun flared up from his armour, blinding the watchers on the walls, but the look on his face as he glared at his enemy was as dark as the deepest pit of Tartarus. Hector moved back and, for a moment, Eperitus thought he would run, but some god must have breathed courage back into his limbs for on his third step he halted. He took his spear in both hands and held it across his body as if to bar Achilles from the city.
‘I’m done with avoiding you in battle, Achilles,’ he said. ‘For ten years we’ve danced around each other, too fearful to fight and too proud to run, but now the time has come for Zeus to decide between us. I expect you to show me no mercy, for I will show you none, but I will make one request of you before we fight.’
‘What is it?’
‘If Zeus’s favour rests on me and I succeed in killing you, I will not dishonour the father of the gods by mistreating your corpse. I’ll take your armour as a trophy of my victory, but your body will be returned to the Greeks for cremation with the proper rites. I ask you to do the same for mine, if you defeat me.’
‘No,’ Achilles responded, scowling at Hector. ‘You and I are enemies, not friends to make cosy bargains with one another. That armour you wear with such pride is already mine, loaned to Patroclus, not you. And for the suffering you have caused me by his death I will drag your body back to the ships and give it to the dogs. No flames to devour
your
dead flesh, Hector, only the teeth of savage beasts!’
He plucked his spear from the ground, pulled it back behind his ear and hurled it with a shout that shook the air. Hector ducked aside at the last moment and the bronze point buried itself in the old oak opposite the Scaean Gate. He turned his shocked eyes upon it, realizing it had only missed him by a finger’s breadth; but as he watched its long shaft still quivering with the force of the throw he also understood that the gods had preserved his life and handed him the advantage. He looked back at Achilles, who had drawn his sword and was now charging across the open ground towards him, snarling with anger. But the distance between them was still wide and Hector no longer felt any fear. The lethargy of dread and doom that had given his muscles a leaden heaviness was lifted from him and he felt a rush of nervous energy burst through his whole body. Drawing back his spear, he took careful aim down the shaft and launched it with all his force, bellowing his rage and resentment.
The slender missile rushed with deadly accuracy at Achilles, catching him full on the shield and knocking him on to his back in a cloud of dust. The crowds on the wall shouted out in joy, but their elation was short-lived. Achilles staggered back to his feet and kicked aside the broken halves of Hector’s spear, the force of the blow having failed to pierce even the outermost layer of his magical shield. Now it was Achilles’s turn to cry out in triumph. His face a mask of hatred, he dashed forward and hewed his sword down against Hector’s shield, sending the Trojan reeling back towards the sacred oak. Achilles came on relentlessly, swinging with terrifying speed and force at his opponent’s neck. The arcing blade would have taken the head off any ordinary man, but Hector’s instincts did not fail him; he ducked the blow and launched himself shield-first at the Phthian, knocking his legs from under him and rolling him over his back to crash in the dust behind him. Hector turned on his heel and drew his sword in the same movement, only to find Achilles back on his feet again and charging at him with the speed and energy of his pent-up hatred. Their blades clashed and scraped against each other, echoing back from the walls of Troy and mingling with the horrified shouts of the onlookers above. But the fury of Achilles’s attack forced Hector back, battling with all his skill and experience just to survive. Then the Greek lashed out and the tip of his weapon drew a line of red across Hector’s forehead. The Trojan rocked back beneath the blow, clapping his hand to the stinging wound, and Achilles circled swiftly to block his escape route to the Scaean Gate.
As the two men eyed each other from over the rims of their shields, Achilles edged back towards the oak tree – watching Hector closely for any attempt to run towards the gates – and pulled his spear free with a grunt. Hector closed the distance again, not wanting to give Achilles the chance for another cast. Then a voice called his name from the battlements and he looked up to see Andromache. Her beautiful eyes were red and her cheeks stained with tears. Helen was at her side, supporting her, but as she looked at her husband facing the monstrous Achilles, her courage left her and she buried her face in Helen’s neck.
By now the Greek army, with the Myrmidons in the van, was crossing the ford and forming a dense barrier of shields and spears just beyond the range of the archers on the city walls. Hector glanced over his shoulder and knew he was trapped, but he no longer cared. He turned to Achilles, renewed hatred burning through his veins. There before him stood the black heart of all Troy’s suffering, but if he could strike him down now it would end the war and release Ilium from the stranglehold of the Greeks. The farmers would take up their ploughs again and the fishermen their nets; merchants from the east would no longer bring weapons and armour, but coloured garments and silver ornaments for the women of the city; Andromache would smile again and little Astyanax could play beyond the walls for the first time in his life. There would be peace again and the only fighting would be in the songs of the bards, sanitizing the memory of the war and glorifying the sons of Troy, with Hector foremost among them.
But the songs had not been written yet, and would not be until Peleus’s son was dead. Hector mumbled a quick prayer, surrendering himself to the mercy of Apollo, and ran forward. Achilles ran to meet him, his spear held in both hands and the point aimed at Hector’s stomach. Hector twisted aside and turned as Achilles rushed past him, striking out with his sword. The blow rang out against Achilles’s helmet but failed to pierce the thick metal. Shouts of dismay rose up from the walls, but Hector barely heard them as Achilles rushed at him with renewed vigour. They met head on, their shields clattering loudly against each other and for a moment Achilles’s long spear left him at a disadvantage against Hector’s sword. In that brief instant of time, drawn out by the quickening of his senses, Hector recalled the one weakness that Achilles was said to possess – his heel. Against all his warrior’s instincts to strike at the head or torso, he hacked down at the back of his opponent’s foot. But Achilles was quicker. He punched the shaft of his spear into the Trojan’s face and knocked him to the ground. With a triumphant shout, he moved to plunge the sharpened bronze into Hector’s prostrate body. Hector kicked out in desperation, finding Achilles’s stomach and sending him sprawling back against the bole of the sacred oak. Hector leapt to his feet and ran after him, his sword raised over his head.
In an instant Achilles’s shield was raised, catching the sun as the figures of men and animals moved rhythmically through the concentric circles that spread out from its centre. It was enough. Hector’s eyes followed them for a moment too long, noticing the enchanted designs for the first time, and Achilles’s spear found the gap between his breastbone and his throat. The momentum of Hector’s attack carried the point through his body and back out by the nape of his neck, stopping him dead. He hung there for a few beats of his heart, then the weapon was pulled free and his heavy body crashed backwards into the long grass.
A sudden, incredulous silence swept across the plain. Even Achilles looked surprised as he stared down at his defeated enemy, his bloodstained chest still rising and falling with its final breaths. Then he stabbed the air with the point of his spear and sent a mighty shout of exultation up to the heavens. His triumph was echoed by the Greeks, while on the battlements of Troy the shocked silence gave way to hysterical cries of disbelief and anguish. As Eperitus ran with Odysseus to join Achilles, he looked up to the walls and saw Helen, her pale face even whiter now as she tried to stop Andromache hurling herself from the parapet.
When they reached Achilles he was already tugging the shield from Hector’s limp arm and throwing it behind him, before kneeling at his side and unbuckling the purple belt Ajax had given him after they had fought on the slopes above the Scamander. The Trojan’s huge body was motionless but for the faint movement of his chest. His eyes were closed and his chin and neck were stained with fresh blood. Then, as Achilles began to unfasten the ties that held his breastplate in place, Hector seized hold of his wrist.
‘Achilles,’ he whispered, though the effort brought on a fit of impulsive coughing as more blood flowed into his throat. ‘Achilles, don’t throw my body to the dogs. Ransom me to my parents so they can give me the proper rites and cremate me with honour.’
Achilles knocked his hand away and spat in his face.
‘You’ll have no honour from me. Be thankful your corpse’ll be left for the dogs and carrion fowl; if I had the appetite, I’d carve your flesh right here and eat it raw before the walls of your own city! Not even if Priam were to offer me your weight in gold would I give your body back to him, not after what you’ve done to me.’
‘Damn you, Achilles!’ Eperitus protested, stepping forward. ‘Hector has fought well; he deserves to be treated with honour. Leave his body here for his own people to claim him, or be cursed by the gods for your savagery.’
‘Savagery?’ Achilles snapped, pulling the breastplate from Hector and throwing it at the Ithacan’s feet. ‘What man can endure a war like this and
not
succumb to savagery? Can you, Eperitus? And you needn’t look at me with such disdain either, Odysseus. Do you think I don’t know who planted the gold beneath Palamedes’s tent?’
Odysseus’s eyes narrowed slightly but he said nothing as Achilles stripped Hector of his greaves and his tunic to leave him naked in the long grass. Then, as Peisandros drove up in Achilles’s chariot, the prince drew his dagger from his belt and slit the tendons at the back of Hector’s feet, from heel to ankle, causing him to cry out pitifully. Next he passed Ajax’s purple belt through the slits and, dragging Hector behind him, tied him to the back of his chariot. Peisandros jumped down lightly and joined Eperitus and Odysseus as the prince piled the captured armour in the back of the car. The wailing from the walls of Troy grew in intensity as Achilles stepped into the chariot and, with a shout at the horses, sent it trundling off towards the ford.
A
FTER THE
F
UNERAL
O
meros drew on the strings of his tortoiseshell lyre and began to tell the tale of Orpheus’s journey to find Eurydice, his beloved wife, who had been killed by a snake bite and condemned to eternity in the Underworld. It was a sad story that did little to lift Eperitus’s already melancholy mood as he sat next to Odysseus in the king’s hut. Eurybates, Antiphus and Eurylochus were also seated around the blazing hearth, while two more chairs sat empty between them, the fleeces that covered them glowing orange in the light of the flames.
‘More wine, sir?’ asked a slave, peering over his shoulder and seeing the empty cup in his hand.
Eperitus nodded and handed him his cup. As the dark liquid reached the rim and the slave moved off to serve Eurylochus, whose hateful eyes were ever flickering towards Eperitus, Omeros reached the climax of his tale. Having persuaded Hades to release Eurydice, Orpheus broke the one condition imposed by the god of the Underworld – not to look back before he reached the land of the living – and lost his wife for ever. For some reason, whether it was the wine or Omeros’s skill as a bard, Eperitus felt his heart sink lower and he let his gaze fall on the flames quivering over the hearth.
While the others listened intently to the conclusion of the song, the words faded into the back of Eperitus’s mind and he recalled the horrors and excesses he had witnessed over the previous days. More than anything, as he watched the fire, he was reminded of the funeral pyres on the plain and the countless bodies of Greeks and Trojans burning brightly in the darkness. It had taken the exhausted army the rest of the afternoon after Hector’s death and the whole of the next day to gather the slain, while the Trojans had done the same under truce. So many had been killed on both sides that the wood for their pyres had to be collected from as far away as the foothills of Mount Ida, and every wagon and cart, mule and bullock had to be commandeered to bring it back. That was twelve days ago now, but Eperitus could still smell the burnt flesh as clearly as the spices in his wine.
But if the scene on the plain had been horrific, the cremation of Patroclus by the ships was opulent, ghoulish and profane in the extreme, making Eperitus shudder with disgust at the memory of it. The humble mourning of the rest of the army for their lost comrades was made a mockery of by the excessive grief of Achilles for his friend. Refusing to wash the caked gore of battle from his own body, he laid Patroclus on top of the great mound of wood and then fetched Hector’s corpse, which he threw face-down in the dust before it. Sheep and cattle were sacrificed by the dozen, but instead of offering the fat and thigh bones to the gods as he should have done, Achilles laid them on top of Patroclus’s body and slung the carcasses of the slain beasts upon the piled wood around him – a blasphemy that caused even Great Ajax to turn away in shame. Next he slaughtered four horses and two of Patroclus’s hunting hounds to add to the growing heap of death, before placing jars of honey and oil between the cadavers – gifts suitable to a god, but not a mortal man. His final act was to murder the twelve prisoners he had taken during the fight in the river, slitting their throats one by one and throwing their bodies on to the pyre, which welcomed them greedily. This stunned the onlookers and raised murmurs of dissent among the attendant kings and leaders, appalled by the affront to the gods. But Achilles ignored them and none dared challenge him while he was in such a fell mood, for fear of having their own corpse added to the heap; but there were few now who did not doubt his sanity as he stood before the raging flames with his arms held up to the night sky, shouting defiance at the gods. His voice was lost in the howling wind and the roar and crash of the waves out at sea, but even though Eperitus’s sharp hearing could not hear the words, he knew the immortals did. And whatever curses may leave a man’s mouth, the gods always spoke last.
The following day Patroclus’s bones were sealed with fat in a large jar and a barrow was raised over the ashes of his pyre. Funeral games followed, with Achilles providing rich gifts for winners and runners-up alike. Diomedes won the hotly contested chariot race, while Odysseus competed against Little Ajax in a foot race that recalled their competition in Sparta twenty years earlier, when Odysseus had won the hand of Penelope by using his cunning against the Locrian’s greater speed. Once again Odysseus was victorious, despite being the slower man, though this time his ploy was to have Omeros spread fresh dung across the final stretch of the course, causing Little Ajax to slip and fall face down in the mess while Odysseus swerved around it and sprinted to victory. More competitions followed with ever more luxurious prizes and growing bitterness between the proud and stubborn competitors.
When the wrestling match was announced Odysseus stood up at once, but when Great Ajax rose to challenge him Eperitus noticed a strange hesitation in Odysseus’s face. After the two men had stripped naked, they began a series of exercises to form a layer of sweat over their skin, making it harder for their opponent to get a grip. But as they knelt to dry the palms of their hands in the sand Eperitus saw the same doubtful look in Odysseus’s eye again, though it was more a guilty pause than a wavering of fear. Then they closed with a shout, throwing their arms about each other in a fierce embrace and trying for the first throw of the three required for victory. But both men were too seasoned and much too strong to give away such an easy advantage, and within moments their arms were locked about each other’s backs and their heads were thrust into their opponent’s shoulder, pressing ear to ear so that their senses must have been filled with the sound of their own grunting and the stink of fresh sweat. Each tried to wrong-foot the other and trip him, using the techniques and tricks they had been taught and had practised since childhood, but with little success. Then, as the cheering died down and the crowds began to lose their enthusiasm for the contest, Ajax’s superior strength prevailed and he lifted Odysseus from the ground.
‘I have you now,’ he groaned.
But in the same instant, Odysseus kicked his heel back against the bend of Ajax’s knee and cut his legs from beneath him. The son of Telamon crashed into the sand with Odysseus on top of him, while all around them the crowds exploded back into life, leaping into the air and cheering.
The two men were soon back on their feet with their arms tight about each other’s backs. Though their stamina was waning, Odysseus was filled with renewed confidence and tried to lift Ajax from his feet for another victory. He raised him a little, but Ajax’s pride had already been hurt and he was determined not to be thrown a second time. He resisted with all his might, and as Odysseus felt his strength give, he abandoned the lift and attempted a hasty knee-hook, bringing both men crashing side by side to the ground.
Sensing the contest could carry on until sunset without conclusion, Achilles stepped forward and declared the match a draw, announcing that the prizes and the honour would be shared equally. The crowd applauded the decision with relief and Ajax offered Odysseus his hand. The Ithacan took it quickly and withdrew, leaving Ajax looking puzzled.
‘What is it?’ Eperitus had asked, handing Odysseus his tunic and cloak.
‘What’s what?’ Odysseus replied, refusing to meet his captain’s eye as he walked past him.
Last of all was the competition for the furthest spear cast, but when Agamemnon offered to compete, Achilles pronounced that the King of Men was clearly the best spearman of all the competitors and awarded him the prize without a missile being thrown. This act of flattery towards Agamemnon, and the Myce-naean’s equally sycophantic acceptance of it, disgusted Eperitus almost as much as any of the other shameful events connected with the funeral of Patroclus. It was as if the feud that had cost the lives of thousands of men had never happened, as if their deaths were but an unfortunate chapter in the breaking and mending of the relationship between the greatest of the Greeks.
But if Achilles’s animosity towards Agamemnon had been laid to rest, his hatred of Hector had not. The morning after the funeral games, he rose at first light and went out to Patroclus’s barrow, where Hector’s corpse had been left unburied in the dust for the carrion beasts to have their way with it. When he found the Trojan prince’s body untouched and his wounds miraculously closed up, Achilles flew into a fury and hacked at it with his sword, before tying it to the back of his chariot and dragging it three times around the broad mound where Patroclus was entombed. It was a sacrilege that he had repeated every morning since, and every night the gods closed the new wounds and left Hector’s body lying as if in a deep sleep.
Omeros’s song ended with a flourish on the strings of his lyre. A moment later the flap of canvas over the hut door was pulled aside and Arceisius entered, followed by the vast bulk of Polites, who had to stoop to fit through the low entrance.
‘You sent for us, my lord?’ Arceisius asked.
‘Come in and sit down,’ Odysseus said, indicating the two empty chairs.
They lowered themselves into the seats, wondering why they had been summoned to the king’s hut and looking uncertain of themselves. Odysseus sensed their discomfort and gave them a reassuring smile.
‘Relax, both of you. I don’t often ask you here, but that’s going to change from now on.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Arceisius said, taking the krater of wine that the slave was holding before him and leaning forward to pour a libation into the flames.
He shot a questioning glance at Eperitus, who looked away and raised his wine to his lips to disguise the smile that had appeared there.
‘My commanders often come here to discuss tactics and other matters, so you might as well get used to the place,’ Odysseus explained with a grin. Then, seeing the look of confusion on their faces, he opened his hands out wide and shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’m
promoting
you both. Since Pelagon and Tychius were killed in the fighting, two of my companies have been without commanders – I want you to take their places. I would have said something before now, but I didn’t want you walking around with broad grins while everyone’s still supposed to be grieving for the dead. Anyway, the official mourning period ended today, so I’m giving you charge of Pelagon’s two ships, Arceisius, and all the men in them; Polites, you’ll have Tychius’s.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Arceisius said, standing and bowing.
Polites, still looking confused, followed suit.
‘To Polites and Arceisius,’ Eurybates said, standing and raising his cup. ‘May their service be long and glorious.’
The others stood, poured fresh libations to the gods and drank to the new commanders. Eperitus caught Arceisius’s eye and nodded, proud that the shepherd boy whom he had made his squire so many years before was now a captain in his own right.
‘Time you chose a squire of your own now,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s a commander’s privilege.’
As Arceisius opened his mouth to speak, the canvas flap was pulled aside and a guard ducked inside.
‘Sir,’ he said, addressing Eperitus. ‘There’s a man outside who wants to see you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘A farmer, sir. One of the men who brings fodder for the animals.’
‘What would he want with me?’ Eperitus frowned. ‘Tell him I’m busy.’
‘I already did, but he says it’s urgent. He said to tell you it’s about the girl in the temple of Artemis, whatever that means.’
Astynome! Eperitus thought. He glanced at Odysseus, who looked back with concern but nodded his consent. Eperitus retrieved his cloak from the table by the entrance and threw it about his shoulders, then followed the guard out into the night air. The sky above was cloudless and pricked with stars, though their lustre was dimmed by the light of the moon as it hung low in the east. A skinny man with a wide-brimmed hat was standing close to the entrance, tugging anxiously at his pointed grey beard and muttering to himself.
‘What do you want?’ Eperitus asked sternly, though his heart was beating rapidly at the thought the man might have brought word from Astynome.
‘I have something for you, my lord,’ the farmer answered in thickly accented Greek.
‘What is it? A message?’
‘It’s in the back of my cart, sir,’ he replied, lowering his voice and looking nervously at the guard. ‘You’ll have to come with me.’
Eperitus narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but nodded his consent. The man set off at a quick pace between the tents and fires of the Ithacans, until he reached one of the main thoroughfares that ran through the Greek camp. An old cart sat at a camber by the side of the broad path, with a sore-covered and fly-infested mule yoked before it. A small, bored-looking boy sat on the bench dangling a long stick over the animal’s back. He sat up as the farmer and Eperitus approached and eyed them in silence.
‘In here,’ the farmer said, leading Eperitus around to the large heap of hay on the back of the cart.
He looked furtively about himself, then thrust his arms into the hay and began pushing great heaps of it over the side. A blanket appeared with something beneath it, and then the something moved. Eperitus stepped back in alarm, gripping the hilt of his sword. At that moment the blanket was thrown aside and a girl sat up, blinking in the moonlight. Her tousled hair was threaded with hay, but her lovely face and dark eyes were as beautiful as the first time Eperitus had seen her.
