Then Creon gives the call and the duel begins.
After a few feints, Aegialaus throws, hoping to catch his foe off guard. His javelin is well aimed to pass over the rim of Laodamas’s shield and strike his helmet, hoping to stun or even kill his opponent. Laodamas whips his shield up and twists, deflecting the javelin so that it lands in the dust behind him. He waits a moment, letting Aegialaus feel the tension of a man under fire – both spears must be thrown before they can progress to swordplay.
Then the Theban casts hard at the centre of Aegialaus’s shield, the spear slamming into it with enough force to stagger the young man. Not only is the shield now burdened with the ungainly weight of the spear, but the force of his throw has driven the point right through the hardened layers of oxhide, threatening to wound the Argive in the belly. Aegialaus has to somehow break off the shaft and clear the spearhead, even as Laodamas draws his sword and goes for him.
Somehow the Argive gets rid of the javelin in time, but he has to endure several mighty blows to his shield before he can pull his own xiphos from its scabbard. He manages though, to his immense credit, and then he counters, darting left then right, his guard high and secure. By contrast Laodamas seems ponderous, despite his bullish snorting and powerful stature. Their swords scour each other’s shields as they spin round and round each other, hacking and hammering away.
Tale-spinners sing of duels that last hours and days, and of the gods pausing to watch, magically appearing on thrones above the field. I can’t attest to seeing any divinities, and real duels last a much shorter span of time, even if it’s an equal match.
This one isn’t: after some intense, energy-sapping leaping and twisting, Aegialaus’s lungs run out of air and his footwork falters. The more experienced Laodamas smashes the hilt of his sword down on Aegialaus’s helmet, making the Epigoni champion stagger, then catches the central ridge of his foe’s shield with his and thrusts it sideways to plunge his blade into Aegialaus’s thigh. The younger man reels, almost falling. With a bellow, the older man goes at him, raining blows onto Aegialaus’s shield and then plunging his xiphos up through the hole left only moments ago by his spear to gash the younger man’s left arm. Aegialaus shouts in dismay, his shield sagging as he struggles to hold it up, his arm pouring blood.
Now Laodamas redoubles his attack, thrusting and slashing. Aegialaus puts up a brave defence, blocking blow after blow until Laodamas locks his blade and slams his shield rim into Aegialaus’s shoulder to knock him sideways. As the young man tries to regain balance on his one good leg, Laodamas crunches the shield into his right arm and snaps it at the elbow. The Argive’s sword spins away and the pain drives the young man to his knees.
By rights, Laodamas should have finished it there, but he just kisses his xiphos blade against Aegialaus’s throat. ‘Beg, Epigones,’ he rasps.
You bastard, I think, my hand going to the Great Bow slung over my shoulder.
Aegialaus’s face is contorted with pain and the certain knowledge of his fate, but he lifts his chin. ‘A prince of Argos does not beg.’
Laodamas pulls the blade away, but it’s only to give him room to swing… to taunt Aegialaus more would be to compromise his own honour, and the Theban knows this. He readies his arm for the kill.
Aegialaus moves in a blur, wrenching out his dagger with his left hand and plunging it into the other man’s foot. Laodamas howls in agony, but his reflex blow sends the xiphos cleaving downwards, through the back of the prince’s neck. Aegialaus’s helmeted head falls to the dirt, while his torso fountains blood and falls sideways, twitching to stillness.
The Thebans cheer and the Argives groan, while Laodamas hobbles away screaming imprecations and leaving a trail of blood. I glance at Adrastus, who’s staring ahead with glassy eyes. But he’s proud, I sense that – and he still thinks we’re all going to share his son’s fate in the next few hours.
Your only son… If we’re victorious today, you’ll always wonder if you should have forbidden him this fight.
Aegialaus’s body is gathered up while the Argives murmur amongst themselves.
‘He died well,’ Diomedes murmurs. ‘Except for that dishonourable last blow.’
‘He lost,’ I reply, not in the mood for glory just now. ‘But that last blow was the best he struck.’
15 – The Battle of Glisas
‘As when rocks hurtle down from the soaring peak of a mighty mountain, and tumble one upon another, and many lofty oaks and groves of pine and poplars with their outstretched roots are smashed by them as they roll headlong until they reach the plain; so did they fall upon one another, in a clamour of commands and exhortation.’
—Hesiod, Shield of Heracles
Glisas, Thebes
The assault begins only a few moments after the death of Aegialaus. An opening barrage of arrows is fired by both sides, some aimed straight and some shot high in the air, to come hurtling down from above. There’s a toll to be paid in death and maiming, and you can either stand erect like you’re Ares or Heracles, or huddle under your shields and pray.
I favour the latter: better odds. Menelaus follows my lead and I’ve ordered my Ithacans to do the same. War is attrition, I tell them – heroic gestures just increase the hits. But there’s always a few that like to stand proud. They might get lucky, but not as often as those that ‘cower’. There is nothing worse than seeing a man you’ve known since childhood reduced to a bleeding heap beside you, though, and as those shafts whistle down, you’re terrified.
Then the Thebans advance at the walk, all purpose – there’s no screaming charge: they want to hit us as one body, shields locked and spears in place, nothing ragged. The captains are bellowing orders and encouragement, calling upon Apollo to grant them victory, and everyone else is screeching war cries or prayers or just shouting wordlessly, trying to let sound carry them through the ordeal to come.
Not everyone can kill. Not everyone can butcher. But sometimes you don’t get to back out of these things – you have to find a way, or perish.
My forty lads are stationed a little distance back from Adrastus’s veterans, who take the full force of the attack as the front ranks smash together, spears punching through gaps in the shield wall to skewer limbs and torsos. The volume becomes a cacophony, a deafening mix of bellowed war cries, screams from the injured and the dying, and the terrified shouting of those who are trapped by the weight of two armies coming together, so that they can no longer move, can’t dodge or parry, can only crouch behind a shield, thrust blindly with their spears and pray.
I quickly see that the practice yards are nothing like this reality: the crush, the absolute shambles of it, the way vision is reduced to just narrow eye slits, as just a yard or two away a forest of men ram spears through any gap. The clatter of bronze on bronze and wood becomes incessant, and the stabbing spearheads come out of nowhere, seeking your flesh. Even if you survive the impaling and the blood loss, you’ll be scarred, marred, mutilated and crippled for life. And then at times the weight of men forces the two lines together, shield smashing against shield, and the slaughter is hideous.
After ten minutes of this vision of Tartarus, I look sideways at Alcmaeon, twenty yards away, as he looks at me, the same thought in both our minds: we have to hold; we can’t break now…
Somehow, his Argives hurl the first wave back – but the second wave of Thebans is fresh, hitting the same Argives who are still reeling from the first assault, and this time the line shakes and shudders, bends and bows. The Epigoni are fighting harder than anyone, shouting encouragement, battering and lunging and stabbing, using their chariots as fighting platforms to gain a height advantage, their charioteers wielding massive shields to keep their lords safe. I glance across at Adrastus, then at Alcmaeon again…
Now, surely?
But Alcmaeon shakes his head. He dismounts from his chariot and wades forward with his personal war band, stiffening the ranks, going shield to shield with the Thebans, bringing new energy against men who’
ve already blown their lungs: fighting is exhausting; you’re spent in moments. The two lines reel apart, leaving more human wreckage, and I glance left and right: the wings, backed by the slopes, are holding more comfortably, and the Thebans aren’t pushing so hard there; they want to drive a wedge down the middle of us, splitting the army in two so they can encircle each half and destroy it piecemeal. It’s what any competent commander would do.
Eurybates hurries to my side, his eyes wide even though he’s seen battle before. ‘The next attack is going to plough right over the top of the Argives – onto us!’ he shouts in my ear, above the din.
‘I know! Are the lads ready?’
He jerks his head towards my spearmen. Tollus is there, shouting in their ears to stiffen them while Menelaus stands grimly by; we’re all fighting to hold our courage as the mayhem of torn bodies and savagery grinds closer. Courage isn’t not feeling fear, it’s feeling it and overcoming it. We can all see the carnage unfolding and know that the moment the enemy break the Argives, we’ll truly be in the thick of it. Tollus, Pollo, Itanus and the rest – they’ve done me proud already, but the real test is to come.
Drums boom and roll, and I see Laodamas in the Theban lines, limping as he gathers his best men, his veterans coming to break the line and sweep all before them. Spear hafts hammer in unison into the earth, they shout their war cries, then charge in at the run, roaring Apollo’s name. They hammer into the Argive centre once more, smash the front line down and hit the next, spears jabbing like butcher’s skewers, and the whole line wobbles, bows and threatens to come apart as more Thebans pour in behind.
I step back, waving at Alcmaeon who nods back, and then Eurybates. It’s time.
The keryx goes sprinting back past Tollus, shouting at the top of his voice: ‘The enemy are on us, there’s too many, we can’t hold!’
My Ithacans turn tail and run into the mouth of the ravine, echoing Eurybates’s cry, with Menelaus and myself following on their heels as the Argive lines collapse behind us. Glancing back, I see Alcmaeon roaring at his men, who have turned to flee in our wake. The Thebans bellow in triumph, cutting down the last men to resist before setting after us, as the cry goes up from the slopes.
‘Retreat! The day is lost! Save the GOLD! Save the WOMEN!’
With the centre broken, our two wings retreat up the slopes on either side of the ravine, and like water flowing towards a drain, the Thebans begin to move inwards along our lines, inexorably drawn to the centre as the word spreads that victory is won, the Argives are broken – and there’s gold and women to be taken.
Menelaus and I are sprinting now, some of the fleeing Argives behind us flinging away their shields so they can run harder as we plunge deep into the ravine and the walls close about us. I glance back and see thrown spears arc through the sky – one strikes a man close on my heels and he goes down impaled. The fastest of the Thebans have caught us up, butchering men from behind as the fight becomes a giant moving skirmish with only one side doing the killing. We pour on up the ravine, panic in the air as we round a bend. I glance back, see a Theban warrior right behind me, sword held high.
I spin and stab before he’s even registered that I still have a weapon; he runs onto my blade and folds over it, I wrench free and run again, in danger now of being overtaken as I tear round the corner with a horde on my heels…
…and round that corner is a solid line of Ithacan spearmen forming up with a perfectly executed turn, kneeling and setting their spears in formation – my men didn’t throw them away, and nor did Alcmaeon’s; they run, along with Menelaus and me, through the narrow gaps in my Ithacans’ ranks and spin to line up behind them as the gaps close, their spears levelled over my men’s shoulders. The Thebans chasing us are sprinting heedlessly through the dust clouds, savage with bloodlust, and they run onto our spears before they know what they’ve met, carried by their own momentum and with no time to react. They’re pierced and hurled back, and the next to reach us skid to a halt while the Theban army behind them keeps pushing forward. The ravine is suddenly choked. Alcmaeon appears beside me, roaring madly as I kindle fire on an arrow and shoot it high into the air.
On that signal, the precipitous slopes on either side of the ravine suddenly fill with men: the Argive ‘deserters’ we’ve concealed ready for this moment, and the rest of my Ithacans led by Nelomon and Bria. They’re armed with spears and bows and large rocks which they start hurling down onto the Thebans. By now, more than half the enemy army are confined in about three hundred yards, crowded together and unable to strike back. I see many try to climb out, but they’re struck down before they get more than a few paces. And still the rear of the Theban army keeps advancing into the ravine, ignorant of the ambush we’ve set them and crushing their compatriots even more tightly.
It’s Laodamas’s best men at the front, but they’re as helpless as the rest, cut down by volley after volley of arrows and spears, or battered to death by the boulders our ‘deserters’ are heaving down on them. I clamber up onto a rock well above the melee and, with the Great Bow, I pick out anyone who seems to be rallying or organising them, shooting officer after officer in the chest and throat, emptying one quiver then another as Laodamas’s men are slaughtered.
Then Laodamas himself bursts from the press, roaring in fury, and a cohesive assault begins to form. He gathers whoever he can to storm forward, and for a few moments we’re facing a solid attack again, though this time we have the upper hand, with well-set lines, interlocked shields and greater strength of numbers, while the Thebans are being hammered from above or immobilized by the press of their own men.
‘Fight!’ Laodamas snarls, his voice like thunder over the melee.
Then Alcmaeon gives a triumphant bellow, bursting through his own shield wall and taking on the Theban champion. It’s a bold move, for whoever falls will shatter their own men’s morale. But he’s a canny fighter: he goes at Laodamas hard, making him move and the Theban can’t, not when his wounded foot is clearly causing him agony. His limp is getting worse, and his men are being struck down all around him.
Then one of Alcmaeon’s men darts forward to feint a jab with his spear, Laodamas half turns in reflex to deal with the threat, and Alcmaeon rams his own spear into the Theban king’s torso, the bronze head breaking through the junction of the front and back plates to bury itself deep in his belly. Alcmaeon leans on the shaft and twists, and Laodamas gives a choking cry as he falls to his knees, transfixed.
‘Beg, Theban!’ I hear Alcmaeon roar. One of his men takes over the spear to allow his captain to draw his xiphos. Then, mirroring Aegialaus’s death, Alcmaeon beheads the Theban king with one blow.
A wail goes up among what’s left of Laodamas’s champions as they recoil, stumbling over the piled corpses behind them. Alcmaeon slashes through Laodamas’s helmet straps and lifts his bloodied head by the hair, howling his triumph to the gods. Now his men charge forward, smashing into the trapped and wounded Thebans, and the slaughter redoubles.
By this time, the Argive spearmen have taken over front-line duties and I can withdraw my Ithacans further up the ravine, away from the fray. Some are wounded and those of us who are unhurt hasten to bandage them with strips torn from our tunics. We’ve lost only six men, but they’re six good men I’ve grown up with, drunk with, laughed with. We carry their bodies with us, and though we can’t take them home to their families, we’ll give them good burial as soon as we can. For a brief moment, we stand around them, to honour their passage to Erebus while I recite a prayer.
That’s all the time we can spare for now – grieving will have to wait, for there is still much to be done. My men look to me, as I raise a hand. ‘Let’s get above this,’ I shout, pointing up the nearest slope. ‘We need to join our archers.’
Tollus claps my shoulder as we climb the steep slope towards the ruined village of Glisas. ‘It worked, just as you said it would,’ he exults. ‘Lad, your father will be so proud!’
Yes, Tollus, I think. My fath
er will be proud indeed. And I might even win some praise from my step-father…
Our archers, when we join them, are pale-faced at the horrors they’ve helped to create, but they’re doing what they must under Bria’s terse, businesslike direction. I praise them, shouting above the clamour as panic destroys any resistance the Thebans can offer.
‘Lads,’ I cry, ‘we need to get back to the mouth of the ravine: this could still go badly if their afterguard regathers and takes the slopes.’ I turn to Bria, who seems to be enjoying herself. ‘Let’s go.’
We run along goat tracks below the village to a rock outcrop where we can overlook the remaining battle and the plain beyond. As I guessed, Creon’s Thebans are trying to scale the slopes on either side of the ravine, but we’d anticipated this, and the wings of the Argive army, now led by the Epigoni princes, are in place, using the height advantage the steep hillsides give them to hold back the Theban assault. Diomedes commands the right flank and they’re fighting strongly, with the young man their rock and anchor. Athena has chosen her new champion well.
I look out across the plain, seeking in vain the scarlet robes of Tiresias and Manto among the confusion. The Thebans who have escaped the ravine are staggering back in retreat, wounded and limping. The rest are either still trapped in the ravine, dead or alive, or trying and failing to take the slopes on the flanks. But though they still have almost as many men as us, the mood has completely changed. It’s time for the clincher.
I shoot two more flaming arrows into the air, kindled by the fire-magic of Prometheus, though I take care to hide this from my men, using Eurybates, Bria and Menelaus as a screen. That’s the signal for one final reserve force, just a few hundred men but led by several Argive theioi, to charge out from their hiding place on the far side of the ridge, behind Glisas village, and strike the milling, dispirited Theban forces on their flank.
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