The Armour of Achilles (43 page)
There was uproar. Men of every rank suddenly began talking at the same time, their exclamations of disbelief and shock growing increasingly louder as they shouted to be heard. And as more and more turned to face Eperitus, Odysseus looked at his friend and saw the doubt and internal debate reflected in his eyes.
‘Silence!’ Agamemnon bellowed, standing and raising his golden staff above his head. The babble of voices fell away. ‘This contest is not decided yet. If your claim is true, Odysseus, the armour of Achilles is yours. But first I must have confirmation from Eperitus.’
Ajax, who had been aghast and speechless up to that point, stepped forward.
‘No! Eperitus is Odysseus’s man. He will say whatever Odysseus wants him to say.’
‘Eperitus is a man of honour,’ Agamemnon countered, turning his cold blue eyes on the Ithacan. ‘I will take him at his word. Tell us truthfully and on your oath, Eperitus: did Achilles promise Odysseus his armour?’
Eperitus looked at Odysseus, then raised himself slowly to his feet.
‘It’s true, Achilles did confer his armour on Odysseus,’ he admitted. ‘But those were
not
his last words. “To be worn honourably as a token of my gratitude,” he said, “
for of all the Greeks, you alone have come to my aid
.” He uttered this with his final breath, unaware that Ajax was fighting off the Trojans only a few paces away.’
Eperitus dropped back down on the bench and put his head in his hands, just as all around him every other member of the council leapt to their feet and began to shout again. But this time they were not calling out in shock or disbelief. Now they were hurling curses and accusations at the king of Ithaca, while Odysseus stood in the eye of the storm staring at his captain. Had Eperitus told the truth to uphold his own sense of honour, or was he doing what he thought was best for his king? Odysseus knew it was the latter, and he did not blame him.
‘Shut
up
, damn you all!’ Menelaus yelled.
When the voices showed no sign of abating, he pointed to Talthybius, who raised a horn to his lip and blew. Once again a reluctant silence fell over the debate.
‘Then the judgment has yet to be made,’ Ajax declared. ‘Come, Agamemnon, you’ve seen the trickery and deceit this man is capable of. Make your decision and make it quickly.’
Agamemnon sat back down and shook his head.
‘I’ve a mind to bury this cursed armour along with Achilles’s ashes in that barrow, where it can’t cause any more trouble.’
‘And have some grave robber steal it when the war has ended and we’ve all sailed home?’ Odysseus replied. ‘That would be folly indeed. But I’ve another suggestion, if you’ll hear it. Ajax and I have proved ourselves equal in our valour: but if you want to know who was the most courageous, then ask the Trojans we fought. Let them decide between us.’
‘A fair proposal,’ Agamemnon said. ‘What do you say, Ajax?’
Ajax gave a surly nod and Talthybius was sent with an armed escort to fetch a dozen of the men who had been captured during the retreat from the Scaean Gate. It was not long before Talthybius returned, followed by a procession of bruised and dishevelled-looking Trojans with their wrists bound together by leather cords. Most were tired old men or frightened lads, and without their armour and weapons they looked little better than a band of slaves. Only three had the demeanour of true warriors, their bodies marked with old battle scars and their eyes proud and still belligerent. It was one of these that Agamemnon beckoned forward.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked in the Trojan tongue.
‘Lethos, son of Thymoites.’
‘You fought in the battle by the Scaean Gate?’
‘I fought by the Gate, my lord, where Achilles was killed. And then I joined the pursuit of your army across the plain.’
‘Where you surrendered your arms and your honour,’ Agamemnon non replied, a hint of stiffness in his voice. ‘I want you and your countrymen to answer a simple question. Reply truthfully and you will enjoy meat and wine for a month, instead of bread and water. Do you speak Greek?’
Lethos nodded.
‘Then tell us who the Trojans fear most among the Greeks,’ Ajax demanded, towering over the man.
Lethos looked up at the giant warrior, then about at the faces of the rest of the council. He walked back to join his comrades and spoke with them in whispers, before returning to stand between Agamemnon and Ajax.
‘I know you, my lord. Many times I have seen you in battle, killing without mercy or prejudice. I also saw you carry away the body of the Butcher – Achilles – as strong and tireless as an ox. Yes, the name of King Ajax is well known and greatly feared in Troy.’
Ajax gave a satisfied nod and looked at Agamemnon. ‘You hear? I am the one they fear the most. Give the armour to me.’
‘Your pardon, my lord,’ Lethos interrupted, narrowing his eyes determinedly while taking a step back. ‘We were not asked who we feared the most, but who fought with the greatest courage at the Gate. Though you proved your strength, there was another who wrought havoc among our ranks, killing Trojans by the dozen and preventing us in our fury from capturing Achilles’s body. He was the man who captured me, and he is standing there.’
The assembly erupted in uproar once more as he pointed at Odysseus, but another blast on Talthybius’s horn brought silence.
‘Then the matter is decided,’ Agamemnon declared. ‘Talthy-bius, take these men back and give them meat and wine. Odysseus, come forward and claim what is yours. But first I insist that you and Ajax take oaths of friendship to each other . . .’
‘
Friendship?
’ Ajax boomed. ‘With a liar and a cheat? No, not I! Take your armour, Odysseus, and wear it with a fool’s pride. You may have frightened these Trojan women into choosing you, but I tell you now that armour will never bring you glory. As far as I’m concerned, it will be a mark of shame. May it be your downfall!’
He spat in the sand at Odysseus’s feet then stormed past him, shoving aside Idomeneus and Sthenelaus and kicking over one of the benches before forcing a passage through the packed soldiers beyond. On the opposite side of the circle, Eperitus rose heavily and slipped away into the crowd, unable to watch as Odysseus stepped forward to claim the armour of Achilles.
‘What will you do now?’
Eperitus turned to see Arceisius following him, an anxious look on his ruddy face.
‘I can’t stay here, that’s for sure. I told the truth before the council, thinking I was saving Odysseus from his own folly, and then Agamemnon awarded him the armour anyway.’
‘You only did what you thought was right.’
‘I
betrayed
him! Perhaps all that’s left to me now is to get a horse and ride south, possibly find a ship back to Greece.’
‘And Astynome?’
Eperitus looked at Arceisius. In his shame at his disloyalty he had not thought about the woman he loved. Just then, Omeros appeared.
‘What is it?’ Eperitus snapped, annoyed by the concern on the young bard’s face.
‘I just wanted to say you were right to tell the truth back there, sir.’
Eperitus felt a sudden stab of guilt. He looked at Omeros and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Was I? Or am I just letting my foolish sense of honour get in the way again? And how have I profited from it? The greatest friendship I’ve ever had is over and I’m back where I was twenty years ago – an outcast without anywhere to call home. Perhaps it’s the judgment of the gods upon me that he was awarded the armour fairly in the end, without resort to lies or trickery.’
‘But he wasn’t, sir,’ Omeros said, shaking his head.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You remember Eurybates and I accompanied him to his hut? Well, it wasn’t the only place we visited. After he’d bathed and dressed we went to those old cattle pens where they keep prisoners before they’re sold or exchanged. He told them they might be called upon to say who they thought was the bravest Greek, and promised to release them if they chose him.’
Eperitus looked at him with disbelieving eyes. ‘Then the whole debate was a fraud from beginning to end.’
‘But
why
?’ Arceisius asked. ‘Why would Odysseus dishonour himself for the sake of another man’s armour? I don’t understand.’
‘I think do,’ Eperitus answered. He paused to collect his thoughts, then looked at his companions. ‘Somehow, Odysseus believes the armour of Achilles will give him the glory he lacks. But, more than anything, it’s the war itself. It’s sucking the humanity out of all of us. Look what it did to Achilles and what it’s doing to Ajax. And me, too – I’ve been so full of my own pride I haven’t realized the people I care most about are being destroyed. But it’s in my power to change it, and by all the gods on Olympus I’m
going
to!’
‘But how?’
‘Never mind, Arceisius. I’m leaving the army – I’ve no choice about that anyway – but I’m not heading south. There’s something else I need to do, but you and Omeros have to delay Odysseus while I escape.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
Eperitus looked at his friend and smiled. For a moment he recalled the first time he had seen him, twenty years ago on Ithaca: he had been a young shepherd boy then, but now he was a veteran warrior with responsibilities to his king.
‘No, Arceisius. When this war’s over you have a wife to go back to on Ithaca, and what’s more you’re no longer my squire. You haven’t been for a long time now. Your place is to serve Odysseus, and the best way you can perform your duty is to keep him away from the Ithacan camp until I’m gone.’
He slapped Arceisius on the shoulder, nodded to Omeros, then turned and disappeared among the hundreds of soldiers still lingering on the beach. When he reached his own hut it was to find Astynome busy cooking a delicious-smelling stew for their evening meal. She walked over to embrace him, but he slipped away from her fingertips and ran over to the table where his armaments were laid out.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, her beautiful face suddenly anxious as she came over to help him with the buckles of his leather cuirass.
‘Never mind me. Put your sandals and cloak on. We’re leaving at once.’
She looked at him, momentarily confused, then without further question lifted the stew off the flames and did as she was instructed. Within moments they were ready – Eperitus fully armed with his spear and grandfather’s shield, Astynome in her plain travel-cloak with the hood thrown over her black hair. As they left the hut and saw the bands of purple, vermilion and red filling the sunset sky, she turned and placed her hands on Eperitus’s shoulders.
‘Stop, now. Tell me where we are going or I refuse to take another step.’
‘Then I’ll carry you!’
She ducked away from him and held up an admonishing finger.
‘Tell me, Eperitus. I won’t resist or question you, I just want to know.’
Eperitus took a deep breath and looked around himself. The Ithacan soldiers were returning from the debate in twos or threes and had already set about making fires and preparing their evening meal. There was a jovial mood about them, pleased at Odysseus’s success. But there was no sign of the king.
‘I’m leaving the army for good.’
‘Leaving Odysseus?’
‘Yes, and you’re coming with me – at least to the camp gates.’
Astynome frowned. ‘And beyond the gates?’
‘We’ll take a couple of horses and then I want you to ride back to Troy.’
‘Not without you.’
‘Only for a short time, then we can be together for good. I want you to find my father and tell him to meet me at the temple of Thymbrean Apollo at midnight. No more questions now. Let’s go.’
T
HE
M
ADNESS OF
A
JAX
‘W
ho’s the woman, Eperitus?’
Diocles and the other guards swung the gates open as Eperitus and Astynome approached.
‘A friend of mine,’ he replied, slapping Astynome’s backside so that the Spartans understood what he meant. Astynome shot him a glance from beneath her hood but said nothing. ‘I’m taking her back to her father’s farm. I pay well for his goods and I wouldn’t want them to get lost.’
‘No, I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ Diocles said, eyeing the fine figure beneath the cloak. ‘Are his goods for sale to anyone else?’
‘You’ll find my father’s “goods” are very picky, Greek!’ Astynome snapped.
‘She’s just as fiery in bed,’ Eperitus added, holding up his hand apologetically as Diocles’s face suddenly darkened. ‘If the Trojan men had her temper they’d have beaten us years ago.’
Diocles’s frown receded a little, while behind him the other guards laughed and jeered at him.
‘Well, just you make sure you escort her out of the camp every time she visits, because if I catch her I might just have to teach her some manners.’
Eperitus smiled and gave a tug on his horse’s reins, leading it over the causeway towards the open plain. Astynome followed, pulling her smaller mount behind her. The sky above them was already a deep blue and marked with a smattering of early stars. The mountains in the east had darkened to a jagged line of black peaks against the horizon.
‘Couldn’t you have thought of something better to say?’ Astynome berated him as they moved out of earshot. ‘I’m no prostitute and I don’t like being compared to one.’
Eperitus did not reply. The charade at the gate over, his heart was heavy again and his mind filled with dark thoughts. The only comfort was the presence of Astynome – despite her temporary exasperation – and he tried to distract himself by thinking of the rest of his life spent with her. Then his sharp ears caught footsteps following behind and he turned to see a familiar figure coming towards them in the dusky half-light.
‘Arceisius! What are you doing here?’
‘Where are you going, Eperitus? I think you should tell me.’
‘I can’t stay with the army.’
‘You’re going to Troy with Astynome, aren’t you?’
There was a strange look in Arceisius’s eye, as if he knew the truth but could not bring himself to believe it. Eperitus hesitated, not knowing how to answer.
‘Yes, he is,’ Astynome answered, reaching out and placing a calming hand on Arceisius’s upper arm.
‘I’m going to end the war, Arceisius. I’m going to meet my father in the temple of Thymbrean Apollo—’
‘Your
father
!’
‘Yes. He says he can bring peace and I’m willing to give him a chance. I don’t think he’s acting on behalf of Priam, but peace is peace and I’m at the point where I’ll take it in any form it’s offered.’
Eperitus crouched beside Astynome’s horse with his hands cupped together. Astynome stepped on to his crossed fingers and mounted.
‘But you hate Apheidas,’ Arceisius continued. ‘You’ve hated him for as long as I’ve known you. And now you’re betraying Odysseus for his sake? How can you, after all you and Odysseus have been through together?’
‘You can call me a traitor if you wish, Arceisius, but I’m doing this for Odysseus’s sake, and for Astynome’s. Do you think I’d ever give up my honour for personal gain?’ He mounted his horse and took the reins, turning the beast to face Arceisius. ‘My honour is everything I’ve ever had, but if I can stop this war by surrendering it, then it’ll be worthwhile. Odysseus needs to get back to Ithaca before he loses all trace of who he really is; and I’ll not have Astynome raped or worse if the Greeks ever succeed in taking Troy.’
Suddenly the point of Arceisius’s sword was pressed against his stomach, just beneath the line of his cuirass.
‘I won’t let you go, Eperitus. You’re ill – a fever or something – but whatever it is, you’re not yourself. You’re not thinking clearly.’
‘My thoughts are clearer than they’ve ever been, my friend. For years all I’ve wanted is glory and honour, and all it’s ever brought me has been pain and loss. And I believe my father has changed, too. He regrets the past, I’m certain of it, and I’m going to give him the chance to redeem himself. So if you want to stop me, you’re going to have to kill me.’
There was a pause, broken only by the flapping of the north wind in their cloaks. Then Arceisius withdrew his sword and slipped it back into its scabbard.
‘Go then, traitor. And may the gods forgive you.’
Ajax sat hunched up on a boulder on the northernmost slopes of the bay. The myriad stars above him seemed to be reflected in the camp below, where thousands of fires guttered and glimmered in the breeze from the sea. The dark, countless shapes of the galleys stood out against the grey of the beach, where their high sterns were lapped by the moon-brushed breakers of the Aegean, charging and retreating again and again across the sand. The roaring of the waves that had hushed the dreams of every Greek for ten years seemed suddenly fresh and soothing to Ajax as he sat with whetstone in hand, repeatedly sweeping it across the blade of the sword Hector had given him after their duel, so many weeks before. All around him were the vast herds of sheep, goats, cattle and oxen that fed the Greek army. They had settled for the night and were lying close to each other for warmth, filling the air with the pungent smell of their bodies. Occasionally a beast would stir, causing a chain reaction of shifting and bleating, but Ajax took no notice of them. Instead, he kept scraping his whetstone over the gleaming blade and staring down at the grey mass of Agamemnon’s tent.
A large fire burned on the sand nearby, sending a column of spark-filled smoke into the air. Black outlines could be seen against the flames, busy jointing and carving up a score of carcasses for the feast that was taking place inside. Every king, prince and captain in the army had been invited to celebrate the end of the official mourning period for Achilles; all of the chief Greeks would be inside, cramming food into their mouths as if Achilles had never existed. But for Ajax, the mourning period was not yet over. When the messenger had arrived with Agamemnon’s invitation, Ajax had refused even to acknowledge his presence. How dare Agamemnon ask him to attend his banquet after he had denied him Achilles’s armour, which was his by blood right
and
by right of the fact that he was the greatest warrior in the whole army? And no doubt Menelaus, Nestor and the others would all be there to gloat over his defeat! They hated him to a man, jealous of his strength and ferocity in battle, and the fact that he had always covered himself in greater glory than the rest of them combined. What was worse, he could not stand the thought of being in the presence of Odysseus, who would doubtless be showing off Achilles’s armour and taking every opportunity to remind Ajax of his victory. A victory for injustice and nothing more.
Ajax swiped the whetstone over the blade one final time, then returned it to the small leather pouch that hung from his belt. He held the sword up and watched the faint light of the full moon cascade down its length. It was a good sword and a far greater token of glory than the armour Odysseus had been awarded, for at least Hector had given it to him in honour of his fighting prowess. Now he would use both sword and prowess to show the rest of the Greeks that he was not to be dismissed lightly or made a mockery of. He slid down from the rock and strode determinedly through the long grass, an angry sneer contorting his features.
‘If you go down to that tent, Ajax, I promise you it will end in disaster.’
Ajax spun round to see a young shepherd sitting on the boulder he had just vacated. He was as tall as Ajax, but white-skinned and of slender build. His hair shone like silver in the moonlight and he stared at Ajax with large grey eyes that seemed wise and ageless and yet filled with energy and laughter. In his right hand was a tall crook and over his left arm was draped a fleece of silvery wool.
‘Who are you?’ Ajax demanded. ‘Where did you spring from?’
‘Come now,’ the shepherd replied, ‘don’t you recognize an immortal when you see one? You may grudge our help in battle, son of Telamon – always reluctant to share your glory – but you still honour us with sacrifices. Only the other day you offered me a bullock . . .’
‘Mistress Athena!’ Ajax exclaimed, bowing his head and dropping on to one knee. ‘Forgive my slowness.’
‘And where are you off to on this fine evening, Ajax?’
Ajax stared at the ground, glad the goddess could not see the guilt written on his features. ‘To . . . to Agamemnon’s tent. There’s a feast.’
‘A good idea. Best not to let your anger fester – speak with the King of Men and Odysseus, let them know you bear them no ill will. But give me Hector’s sword first. I will take it back to your hut for you.’
‘I’d rather not, Mistress.’
‘I see,’ said Athena, though she had seen all along. ‘Then you’re set on teaching Agamemnon and Odysseus a lesson, and perhaps a few of the others too, in your anger.’
‘Yes,’ Ajax answered, raising his angry eyes to the goddess. ‘Yes! They humiliated me in front of the whole army and I can’t stand it. I won’t stand it!’
‘Don’t blame Agamemnon or Odysseus, or even the Trojan prisoners. Blame yourself, Ajax! You have insulted the gods too many times. Do you think we have turned a blind eye to your proud insolence? Well, we haven’t. It was Zeus’s will that Achil-les’s armour was given to Odysseus – not for anything Odysseus has done, but to punish you. And if you continue on this course you’re planning, then the vengeance of the gods will be complete.’
‘Then let Zeus strike me down!’
‘No, Ajax. You have lived your life without our help, so let your demise be in the same manner. But I have come to tell you it is not too late. You have your admirers on Olympus, myself among them. Beg our forgiveness and mend your ways and all may yet be well with you. Don’t forget your wife and child . . .’
‘It’s for their sake I have to do this,’ Ajax retorted. ‘I will not have Eurysaces bullied by other children because his father let himself be mocked by lesser men. And if the gods are against me in this, then
curse
the gods!’
Athena slid down from the rock and faced him.
‘Poor fool,’ she said, and struck him over the forehead with her crook.
When Ajax came to it was with a pounding headache and blurred vision. He looked up and saw the stars were somehow distorted, as if he were viewing them through a glass. He closed his eyes and rubbed at them with his knuckles, until slowly he felt the thickness in his head pass. When he looked at the stars again he could see them clearly and noticed they had barely moved in their stations, telling him he had only blacked out for a short time. He looked around for Athena, but there was no sign of her and he concluded he must have been dreaming. Then, with a sudden resurgence in his appetite for revenge, he slipped Hector’s sword from its scabbard and set off down the slope.
Four guards stood at the entrance to the tent, their ceremonial armour gleaming orange in the light of the nearby fire. A few paces away were a dozen or so slaves, busily preparing food and wine to supply the feast inside the vast pavilion. The noise of it was spilling out through the different entrances, along with the sounds of a lyre, drunken singing and the playful laughter of women.
The guards were chatting idly among themselves and only saw the glimmer of Ajax’s sword when it was too late. The first fell to his knees with the point in his throat, before keeling over without a sound. Another had his neck sliced almost clean through so that his helmeted head hung down over his back. The last two ran into each other in their panic and fell across one of the guy ropes. Ajax finished them quickly, then turned to face three slaves who were running towards him with torches and carving knives. Despite their bravery they were no match for Ajax’s strength and skill and soon all three of them lay dying in pools of their own blood; the others ran off among the tents, thinking only of saving their own miserable lives.
Ajax saw the blood on his sword and grinned to himself. Behind him, the sound of music and singing seemed to grow louder as the revellers remained ignorant of the threat that was but a moment away from bringing murder and destruction into their midst. He edged closer and for some reason was reminded of the time when he had first entered the great hall at Sparta and staked his claim on Helen. There had been a fight on that occasion, too, though a ban on weapons had saved many men their lives.
Suddenly a man came staggering out of the tent, pulling up his tunic and looking for a place to urinate. Ajax recognized him as Peisandros, one of the Myrmidon captains.
‘Ajax,’ he said, focusing drunken eyes on the giant figure before him.
Then his gaze fell to the pile of bodies. A moment later Ajax’s sword was in his heart and his corpse dropped to the ground. Ajax stepped across him and pushed open the large canvas flap.
The scene inside was one he had witnessed many times before. Slaves carried platters of meat and kraters of wine to tables that were already overflowing with food and drink. High-born warriors from every city across Greece sat arm in arm on long benches, singing loudly and tonelessly. Girls in varying states of undress floated here and there like bees, drifting from one lap to another. Every leader in the army was present, along with their captains and favourites, all of them roaring drunk and only sitting because they were too intoxicated to stand. And there, against the west wall of the tent, were Agamemnon and Odysseus, seated next to each other like gods presiding over an Olympian wedding. As Ajax had expected, Odysseus was wearing Achilles’s breastplate and greaves, with the shield and helmet at the side of his heavy wooden chair.
