The Gates Of Troy (61 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘They’ve seen us,’ Odysseus announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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