However, when I gaze north-east, over and beyond the battlefield, I can make out a hazy smudge at the base of a bulky mountain. Hypaton, it’s called, and it rises out of the plain about eight or nine miles away. There’s a village there, or was until the Argives burned it on a foraging expedition two weeks ago. Glisas, the survivors called it, and it’s just off the main road to Attica.
What I first took for haze could be the thin, wispy smoke of many small cooking fires. If my guess is right, they have taken the road towards Attica, either on Diomedes and Bria’s urging, or because the Thebans have given them no alternative.
I deduce yesterday’s events: Adrastus would have had to go on the defensive, forming shield walls bristling with spears and fighting for survival. He’s been driven right to the edge of the plains, but he’s still there. I’m somewhat impressed they’ve not broken and run.
That tenacity has bought me enough time to try and turn this debacle into victory. By tomorrow morning the Thebans will have finished burying their dead and be ready to attack again. But today the plain is theirs and I must take a more circuitous route to reach Mount Hypaton and the Argive camp at Glisas.
First I retrace my steps south, until I can safely work my way across to the low cluster of hills to my east. Here I find a series of rough paths through the forest that take me more or less in the right direction. I travel slowly, quenching my thirst in occasional small streamlets, but always on my guard against ambush – who knows who else might be using these hills as a refuge? By late afternoon I’ve reached a point roughly south of Mount Hypaton, but separated from what I am now certain is the Argive camp by a short stretch of open plain with no cover at all. To my relief, I can also make out a familiar standard flying on their extreme left, next to the charred remnants of an olive grove, a legacy of our pillaging over the last weeks. Some at least of my Ithacans have survived.
If I walk across the open ground before me, I will be shot long before I can make myself known. I’m a pretty unprepossessing sight, near naked, my loincloth sweaty and smeared, my hair a matted tangle and my chin covered in stubble. So I settle down until darkness falls, my empty stomach grumbling away to itself.
There’s plenty to study while I wait. Out on the plain to the west, I can see the Theban army camped, only a couple of miles from our own position. Straight ahead to the north, Mount Hypaton is a most impressive hulk of rock, bordered on its western side by massive cliffs which overlook a small but steep-sided ravine, with the burnt-out remains of Glisas perched on a low ridge on the far side. Just the sort of place I can turn to good use…
Once the crescent moon has set and it’s as pitch black as it’s likely to be, I steal across the plain undetected and pause in the shelter of what’s left of the olive grove at the edge of my Ithacans’ camp. The sound of a hymn to Hades carries on the breeze, a lamentation to the fallen. I’m more than touched: they’re singing for me.
I listen for a while before slipping into the camp unseen, avoiding the sentries. I find Eurybates’s kit, along with my own clothes and weapons, and get myself dressed before I slip into the rear of the gathered men, wrapped in a cloak with a fold covering my head.
‘He was a damned fine captain of men,’ big Nelomon is eulogising. ‘Short-growed fellow, but he could throw the biggest and best of us round like playthings!’
By biggest and best he means himself, of course. Dear old Nelly. I wish he’d let the ‘short-growed’ thing go, though. It’s not like I’m a dwarf.
‘Always had a good word, he did,’ Itanus drawls. ‘Deep thinker – would have made a fine king.’
‘Aye,’ the lads chorus. ‘Aye.’
Looking round the men, I see that Bria’s with them – I’m relieved at that, and Menelaus and Doripanes too, bless them. Even Diomedes has come to pay his respects. Tollus is in tears and he’s not the only one. I’m a little choked myself. But it’s time to end this.
‘I reckon he was an utter priapus,’ I holler out into the intervening silence, disguising my voice.
Heads shoot in my direction, but the cloak is hiding my face and no one recognizes me so far away from the fire. ‘Oi, shut it,’ a couple of men near me mutter.
‘Dragged us halfway cross the Aegean an’ into foreign wars,’ I go on. ‘Into scrapes and out of them! And those damned training sessions of his drove me up the wall! Soldiers just need to know how to fight, not bloody hide or track or forage or tend wounds! Worst captain ever, and a smart-mouthed bullshitter with it!’
‘Who’s that?’ Nelly snarls. ‘Don’t lurk at the back if you’re going to throw down words like that!’
‘Aye,’ others growl. ‘Come out and face us, proktos-face!’
A few men go to lay hands on me, but I shrug them off. ‘I’ll come forward without your help,’ I tell them, shoving my way to the front… and letting the cloak drop.
The looks on their faces I’ll carry to my grave.
Nelomon goes white, gasps and backs away, as if I’m a ghost returned from Erebus. A few of the others do too. But then Bria lets loose a wild whoop and hurls herself at me. ‘Ithaca, you arsehole!’ she shrieks, embracing me and bouncing us both up and down. Then Menelaus and Diomedes wrap their big arms round me and lift me up, crying out thanks to Athena, Doripanes’s high fluting voice joining with them in praise. Eurybates is openly weeping as he pounds my back fit to break my ribs, while all the lads cheer and crowd round.
It takes a while to settle things down, for them all to touch me and make sure I’m not a ghost, and then to tell them the tall tale I’ve concocted, of underground streams and caverns and heart-pounding searches for trapped pockets of air, life flashing before my eyes and the like. I can’t give them the real story, because it’s far less believable even than the one they get. Nor do I lay it on too thick, because we’ve got work to do.
I also listen to them, as various men give me fragments of what they’ve endured since I last saw them. Bria returned to them yesterday with the news of my death, and Alcmaeon denounced me as an imposter before giving the order to strike camp. They were barely two miles across the plain, heading along the road to Attica, when the Theban gates opened and Laodamas’s army poured out. Adrastus had no choice but to array defensive lines, and my Ithacans had to play their part in a dogged fighting retreat.
‘Fortunately the Thebans pretty much left us Ithacans alone after they realized we had good spearmen, plenty of arrows and we knew how to shoot,’ Nelomon growled – he who’d been known to protest that “archery is for cowards”. ‘They tried rushing us a few times then let us be.’ He glows with pride when he tells me we have had no casualties apart from a few scratches, but we’ve dealt out more than a few hard blows.
‘I’m proud of you all,’ I tell them. ‘I wish I’d been here to see it.’
The Argives just held on, my men inform me, mostly through the Epigoni fighting like heroes in the front line until nightfall ended the battle. All today they’ve been occupied with the same ugly business as the Thebans, burying their dead and tending their wounded. Now Adrastus has gathered the Epigoni to determine whether they should stay and fight for their honour’s sake or slip away in the night.
That tells me I need to act fast, so I put an end to the congratulations. ‘Lads,’ I shout, ‘I’ve not come back just to join a retreat! It may not seem so at the moment, but this is a winnable war! I need to talk to Adrastus, and it sounds like I need to do it now. Meantime, get yourselves ready to fight: we’re not retreating, not if I’ve got anything to do with it.’
Nelomon takes charge again, while I pull Menelaus, Bria, Doripanes and Diomedes aside and hurriedly brief them on what actually happened and what I’ve learnt from it. Doripanes’s eyes shine when I tell them of Chariclo’s end and how I managed to look into her mind. I leave Prometheus and his gift of fire out of my account – neither Menelaus or Diomedes need to know of that – though the old priest and Bria give each other knowing looks.
‘Basically, we were right,’ I
conclude. ‘Tiresias has been lying to us for generations, via the oracles. Thebes is not invincible, but it’s going to seem so unless we defeat them.’ I turn to Diomedes: ‘My friend, can you get me before Adrastus? I’m not guaranteeing victory tomorrow – all I can say is that it’s not hopeless. Is that enough for you?’
Diomedes looks doubtful, but he nods. ‘I’ll try,’ he tells me.
The five of us clasp hands, Eurybates produces some food and hot water from somewhere, and I eat, wash and shave – appearances matter a lot to the Argive hierarchy. Then we set off, to find the king and to tell him that his losing war is not lost.
* * *
Diomedes leads the way into Adrastus’s camp with Menelaus and Doripanes, their heads bare. Bria and I skulk along behind them, our faces muffled in the folds of our cloaks – we’re likely none too popular here. But on Diomedes’s say-so, we’re all admitted to the command tent, where King Adrastus sits, wreathed in gloom, looking like a man whose death sentence has been deferred when he’s steeled himself for the end, and only wants to die.
Before his chair, the Epigoni squabble. Dark, angry Alcmaeon is demanding an instant retreat, railing about having been lied to, swearing that ‘the damned Ithacan was in league with Tiresias all along, and lured us into a trap’. Long-haired, sullen Amphilochus ‘hear! hear!’s every few breaths. Thersander sulks, rousing himself only to blaspheme at intervals. Euryalus, Promachus and Sthenelus glower miserably, swearing vengeance on whoever’s name has just come up.
‘We should have marched on Ithaca,’ Promachus opines as Diomedes leads us to the throne.
‘I hope you’re all good swimmers if that’s your plan,’ I remark, uncovering my face.
The whole crowd of them freeze.
‘You?’ gasps Alcmaeon. ‘But…’ Then he whirls on Adrastus and shouts. ‘See! This proves they were in collusion! How else could he survive certain death? It was all a ruse!’
His kin chorus agreement, unable to think for themselves, but Adrastus is staring at me as if I’m Hades himself, here to collect his soul. ‘How is it you’re alive?’ he asks weakly. ‘Alcmaeon saw you sucked down into the depths of the pool. You never surfaced. You’re dead.’
‘Clearly not,’ I tell him firmly, leaving the shadow of Diomedes, Menelaus and Doripanes, and marching boldly forward, even though that puts me in reach of Alcmaeon and his murderous kin. This is no time for caution. ‘I escaped Tiresias’s trap, and in doing so laid it bare. It’s now certain that the priestess of Delos spoke truly.’
‘Hog shit!’ Alcmaeon retorts. ‘I heard the lie of it, when the oracle spoke through you at that cursed shrine! Now you’ve turned up again, you dromas, plying your whore’s tricks to make sure we don’t retreat so your masters can finish us tomorrow!’
It’s a cogent argument, the very one I’d make in his shoes. In fact, logic-wise, he has the high ground and if I pursue that path I’m doomed. So I, the Man of Reason, have to appeal to the very thing I tend to despise: that overblown machismo these men dress up as honour.
But hey, if it wins the day…
‘On the contrary,’ I shout, ‘I hate Tiresias even more than you do. He’s a lying, treacherous piece of kopros, and I want to see him ripped apart and Thebes reduced to rubble. But I’m not here to bolster your egos, nor to buff up your armour so you’ll lose tomorrow in the field! Why should I bother? You’ve already lost! You’re beaten in here,’ I tap my temple. ‘Your hearts have failed,’ I go on, tapping my chest, before poking at my groin. ‘And you’ve got no balls.’
That sends a wave of absolute rage through the tent. Alcmaeon has his sword half out of its sheath but I ignore him – you do this sort of thing wholeheartedly or you don’t even start.
‘It’s going to be easy tomorrow for Laodamas and his cronies,’ I sneer. ‘They won’t even need to fight. In fact, they’d just as soon you do run off home, because they know you won’t be coming back. The Epigoni – the Sons of the Seven – pledged to avenge their fathers? What a sad joke! You think Argos will let you back home after this debacle? They wouldn’t dare, not when Thebes will demand your heads – “invincible Thebes”. No one’s going to want you round, the failed avengers, the cowards who foreswore their vengeance and ran! Hades’s blood, you’ll not even be able to live with yourselves! Your wives won’t respect you, your sons will be ashamed of you, your daughters will die unmarried because no one thinks your line fit to wed! You run tomorrow, and your entire dynasty is finished! Death would be easier to take than that! At least it would be swift!’
Most Achaean warriors – nine in ten of them – think of honour first and all else second. That’s the breed: it’s all about their precious name, their repute, their prowess. So even though right now the Epigoni despise me – no, they absolutely loathe me – they’re nodding their heads involuntarily. Because all this is absolutely true. From the moment they marched, they were committed. They just need reminding of that.
Then Diomedes steps forward. ‘My honour demands that I fight,’ he says. After that, I don’t need to add anything else.
One by one they come round as the prospect of a future as unwanted, shamed men, forever weighed down by humiliation overcomes their desire to lash out at the person they’d love to blame: me. By the time Alcmaeon has pledged to abide by whatever decision King Adrastus reaches, it’s already clear that I’ve won the argument.
‘We fight,’ Adrastus decides, in his doom-laden voice. ‘Tomorrow we stand firm, and try to leave as good a name as we can. My own chariot will be in the front line, and I will live or die with those who have come so far with us. Better to perish with brothers than run like rats.’
The cheers aren’t exactly hearty – each man here thinks tonight will be his last. But at least there’s now some sense of determination, and the will to do battle.
How to win… that will be a whole other trick.
‘Very well, we fight,’ Alcmaeon – the field commander – concedes. He turns his glowering gaze my way. ‘But I still declare Odysseus of Ithaca a traitor and a liar. I say we hang him, for leading our heads into Laodamas’s noose!’
This is a wildly popular proclamation – though not with me – but it’s not unanticipated. Concealing my alarm, for the danger is very real, I raise a hand calmly. ‘Lies? I stand by every word I’ve spoken, and what’s more, tomorrow you will see me and my men in the battle lines, as they were yesterday. We are with you until the end, King Adrastus, bitter or sweet as it may be!’
It’s not an accident that I appeal directly to Adrastus: the king is my best hope here. He wanted this war more than anyone, because he thinks he’s going to die, and he welcomes that. He’ll finally be able to look his dead comrades in the eye – the other six of his Seven – with his own honour assuaged. At least you tried, they’ll tell him.
‘The Prince of Ithaca’s counsel has brought us here, and he will fight at my side – let him prove his honour on the field,’ Adrastus says in his grave voice, and that quietens most.
But Alcmaeon isn’t going to let me off the hook so easy. ‘What surety do we have that he won’t slink off during the night? Everything he says is tainted in deceits.’
‘My lord King,’ I address Adrastus, ‘I will sleep here in your tent, at your feet, if that gives you surety. But I assure you, no one here wishes to be victorious tomorrow more than I. And I’ve heard nothing of strategy tonight. Which of you has a plan – not to die valorously, but to win?’
That shuts them all up. They glance about – especially to Menelaus, whose presence here is suddenly reappraised. ‘Does Mycenae march to our aid?’ some call. Menelaus looks at me, biting his lip, knowing full well that’s not the case. Being honest, he shakes his head, killing that hope.
‘I do have a plan, but it must be kept secret until we’re ready to use it,’ I tell Adrastus. ‘Surprise will be our chief weapon, and we cannot risk news of it leaking to the enemy. Will all of you swear to tell only those who need to know?’
The
king glances at Alcmaeon, who’s so stunned by my temerity he’s speechless, while the others just look perplexed. That suits me fine. Alcmaeon protests that this is another trick, but I’m the only one who’s spoken of victory, that’s held out hope. Adrastus overrules him.
He still has to be persuaded though – they all do. It takes all my guile, and the backing of Diomedes and Doripanes too, before Adrastus finally agrees to listen. He has little choice, in truth. It’s obvious no one else has any ideas, except for running away, which they’ve been shamed out of doing. Or dying, which isn’t a plan at all.
‘Very well, Prince Odysseus,’ he finally concedes.
From someone who was about to be hanged, a moment ago, I’ve now become the king’s strategist. Let it never be said I can’t swing an argument.
We gather about the king: the Epigoni on one side, grouped around Alcmaeon, and what I’d term ‘my’ people on the other – Menelaus, Doripanes and Bria. Diomedes is caught awkwardly in the middle.
I’m conscious that almost everyone here is a theios, with allegiances to this deity or that. Some are sworn to Ares or Zeus, who support Thebes. Others are aligned to Poseidon or Hermes, who haven’t pinned their colours to the mast yet regarding Achaea or Troy. Regardless, a theios is not a puppet, and our patron gods don’t dwell inside our heads. I’ve been awakened by Athena, but that doesn’t mean I always act for her, and she may or may not know that. I’m counting on the fact that each of these men chose to march against Thebes, putting family honour – and maybe Achaean freedom – above the wishes of their patron deity.
Which is another way of saying I’m hoping no one here will betray the plan I’m about to propose, but the notion does cross my mind.
Adrastus has a table, upon which I scatter a layer of his blotting sand and draw with my finger as they all gather round. I mark in our camp at the edge of the plain, with Thebes seven or eight miles away to our south-west. Behind us is the ravine I sighted this afternoon, bordered on the eastern side by steep scree slopes topped by a row of massive cliffs, with the ruins of Glisas opposite on the ridge above the west side of the ravine. The Theban army commands the plains and have more men, so logic says they’ll drive us backwards tomorrow. If we let them outflank us and capture the heights, they’ll be able to rain down arrows, spears and rocks onto the heads of anyone caught in the ravine below. It could easily be a massacre.
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