The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  Understanding all these things, Eperitus looked at her and was moved with pity. He had a sudden urge to take her in his arms and comfort her, feel her thin body close to his again – perhaps for the last time – and tell her everything would be all right. But what comfort could he offer? What hope could he give when Iphigenia was already in the hands of her murderous father?

  ‘Thank you for the horses,’ he said, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her. ‘We’re going to ride through the night to catch them up, if we can.’

  Clytaemnestra smiled sadly, like a child without hope, and looked down at her feet. ‘And what will you do if you find them in time? There are too many of them for your small band.’

  ‘Odysseus has promised to help. If anybody can find a way to save Iphigenia, he can.’

  He smiled reassuringly and took a step towards her, but she retreated before him. A quick movement of her eyes told him that the others were watching - at least, he knew, Eurylochus would be – and that they were unable to show their affection for each other.

  ‘Goodbye, Eperitus,’ she said, turning away. ‘Save our daughter, if you can. But if you can’t, don’t forget your promise – protect my husband until he returns to me.’

  They rode as swiftly as they could, long into the night until they passed the watchtowers on the northern border of Agamemnon’s kingdom. Here Odysseus called a halt and they ate a cold, frugal meal before snatching a brief and fitful sleep. They were up again before dawn and galloping along the dirt road as the sun rose above the hilltops in the east. Eperitus rued the fact that they were not all experienced horsemen, for with skill they could have gone further in less time with the horses Clytaemnestra had given them, which were swift and strong; without them their pursuit of Agamemnon would not have stood a chance. As it was, Eperitus sensed his daughter, helpless and alone, was slipping beyond his reach.

  They came to Megara soon after nightfall and found a room with straw mattresses – a particular blessing for Polites and Eurylochus, who were the least used to riding and seemed to ache in every muscle. The next day was again warm and sunny, and the hooves of their mounts kicked up clouds of dust behind them as they sped along the coastal road beside the Saronic Sea. Being the best rider among them, Eperitus was at the head of the file with his comrades strung out over some distance behind him. As he strained his eyes for sight of a dust cloud that might reveal Agamemnon’s party ahead of them, a bent figure clad in a long brown cloak with the hood pulled over its face hobbled out into the road and waved an arm. Heaving on the reins, Eperitus brought his horse to a halt and looked down at the old woman before him.

  ‘What is it, mother?’ he asked as Odysseus and Arceisius came galloping up on either side of him, kicking up a cloud of dust as they reined their mounts in. All three riders were unrecognizable from the fine grey dirt of the road that caked their faces and clothing.

  The woman did not answer immediately, but spent a long moment pondering the men, studying the shields and weapons they carried and looking in admiration at their fine mounts. Though she must have been tall in her youth, now she was crooked with age and it was with difficulty that she craned her neck to stare up at them. Finally, as Eurylochus and Antiphus joined the group, a quavery voice came out from the shadows beneath her hood.

  ‘Forgive an old crone her curiosity. I can see you’re in a hurry, and that seems to be the way of youth these days. When I was a lass they used to say that only a fool hurries, but the world no longer has the wisdom it used to. Anyway, I saw your shields and your tall spears, and I thought to myself: here are some warriors, riding to war no doubt, courageously hurling their lives into the path of danger as if they’ve plenty to spare, and not caring about their poor mothers sitting at home and worrying about the ones they brought into the world with such travail and pain.’

  ‘Yes, old hag, we’re warriors,’ snapped Eurylochus, impatiently. ‘Now, was there a point to throwing yourself into our path, or do you just want to bore us with tales of how things used to be?’

  ‘As I said,’ the old woman continued, nodding sagely, ‘always in a hurry. Do I have a point, though? Yes, of course. I was just thinking to myself what magnificent, dust-covered warriors you all look, and how similar to my poor son you are, just before he rode off to his death in battle, leaving me – already a widow – destitute and poor, hardly able to feed myself but for the charity of passers-by.’

  ‘Our hearts bleed for you,’ Eurylochus interrupted, tossing a barley cake into the road at her feet. ‘Now, save us the detail of your suffering and stand aside, before I’m tempted to ride over you.’

  Odysseus raised his hand to silence his cousin. Despite the urgency of their pursuit, he smiled kindly at the crone and nodded. ‘Go on, mother.’

  The woman ignored the cake at her feet and cocked her head to look up at Odysseus. Her eyes gleamed from the shadow of her hood. ‘You have the manners of a nobleman, my lord,’ she croaked. ‘And perhaps your patience in listening to an old hag will be rewarded, eh? I was saying you reminded me of my son, a mighty warrior with noble blood in his veins. Beloved of the gods, he was, and though I say he went to war leaving me destitute, it is not entirely true. For after he was killed – outnumbered and surrounded by his enemies – his friends retrieved his armaments and sent them back to me, to remind me of him in his pride and glory. And long I have kept them, long; not only for the sake of his memory, but also because of their great pedigree. For they aren’t the weapons of mere mortals: each one was given to him by a god, in recognition of his piety and devotion to them.’

  Eurylochus snorted and muttered something under his breath. Arceisius turned to him, admonishing him in a loud whisper: ‘Be careful, Eurylochus. Haven’t you heard the gods often disguise themselves as crones or beggars to test the quality of a man?’

  ‘Well said, son,’ the old woman cackled. ‘You may be young, but you’re certainly no fool. And maybe the gods are about to reward you, for though I said I have kept my son’s weapons for long, I find myself forced to part with them to feed my hungry belly. My eyes fail me now and I can no longer earn my way as a seamstress, so perhaps you can spare some food and a few trinkets in exchange for a helmet, a bow or a dagger? They’re all that remain of my son’s proud armaments – the rest were had by wise travellers like yourselves, who knew a bargain when they saw one.’

  ‘What would we want with a load of blunt, second-hand weapons?’ Eurylochus scoffed.

  ‘May the gods forgive your ignorance,’ she replied. ‘Did I not say they were the gifts of the immortals to my son? Would you insult the Olympians by turning your noses up at these fine weapons: a bow given by Apollo, which has unerring aim; a helmet from Ares himself, which can be penetrated by no weapon; and a dagger from Aphrodite, that is not only made of gold but also gives the wearer the power to woo any woman he comes across?’

  ‘One of my men needs a new bow,’ Odysseus said. He was eager to press on and, not wanting to show disrespect to an old woman, had decided the only option was to buy something and make a rapid departure.

  The crone turned and hobbled towards a blanket that had been spread out on the ground at the side of the road, beneath the shade of an olive tree. Stooping a little, she took hold of one of its corners and pulled it away to reveal the armaments she had spoken of: a battered but polished helmet, a well-kept bow, and a dagger that gleamed with gold in the sunlight.

  Suddenly, Antiphus leapt down from his horse and ran to look at the weapons.

  ‘Hey!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is my bow!’

  The old woman stepped back, straightening up a little as she moved. ‘Impossible,’ she laughed. ‘I’m afraid you’re gravely mistaken, lad. This is my son’s bow, given to him by . . .’

  ‘Apollo,’ Odysseus said, jumping down and patting the dust from his clothes. ‘Yes, we know. But Antiphus wouldn’t make a mistake about a weapon he’s owned since boyhood. Perhaps you’ll allow us to take a closer look at these other gifts of the gods.�
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  At that moment, Polites arrived. The crone took one look at the giant warrior, then turned and began to hobble away at a rapid pace. ‘I suppose you intend to rob me, do you?’ she complained as she retreated. ‘Five armed men and now a giant from the old tales! Take the damned weapons, then. A poor widow can hardly defend her possessions from determined thieves, can she, if they’ve a mind to have them for themselves?’

  Odysseus signalled to Eperitus, who spurred his horse forward to block her escape. Meanwhile, Antiphus picked up his bow and studied it closely, checking for damage while smiling broadly at the feel of it in his hands again. Beside him, Odysseus stooped down to pick up a clay jar from beneath the shade of the tree.

  ‘Don’t touch that!’ the crone ordered, hobbling back towards him. ‘It’s the only water I’ve got and the nearest stream is a good walk away on the other side of that ridge.’

  Ignoring her, Odysseus poured the water over his head and wiped the dust from his face.

  ‘Recognize me now?’ he asked, after drying his face on the blanket that had covered the array of weapons.

  The old woman pulled the hood further down across her face. ‘Never seen you before in my life. Now, why don’t you take the weapons and leave me in peace. And may the gods curse you for your wickedness, stealing from a helpless crone and all.’

  ‘You’re neither a crone nor helpless,’ Odysseus replied, seizing her arm and pulling her to her full height, then throwing the hood back from her head. It was Galatea.

  ‘This is your dagger, Eperitus,’ Antiphus announced, bending down to pick up the weapon. ‘And your helmet, Polites.’

  ‘Where’s my sword, woman?’ Eurylochus demanded.

  ‘And my spear?’ Arceisius added.

  Galatea shrugged off the heavy cloak from her shoulders and stood before them in a plain woollen dress. Her suntanned skin shone with sweat and her grey eyes gleamed with defiance.

  ‘They went – not that I got much for the old junk. The only reason I couldn’t get rid of that dagger was because nobody could afford my price, and I certainly wasn’t going to give it away. As for that oversized helmet, I couldn’t find a soldier with a head as big as a horse to take it from me.’

  Polites looked hurt, but remained silent as he gazed in awe at the beautiful thief.

  ‘Well, you can at least give Odysseus those gold bangles back,’ said Eperitus.

  ‘No,’ said Odysseus, who had been watching Galatea in thoughtful silence. ‘No, I’m going to let you keep them.’

  The scowl fell from Galatea’s face and everybody looked at Odysseus in astonishment.

  ‘Keep them?’ repeated Eurylochus.

  ‘Yes – keep them,’ Odysseus confirmed. ‘And what’s more, Eurylochus, when we reach Eleusis we’ll get the girl fine clothes and jewellery fit for a goddess. What do you say, Galatea?’

  Galatea could not stop her face breaking into a bright smile, but she crossed her arms and stared at the Ithacan king with her head cocked to one side. ‘Keep what I took from you and get more on top? Not without something in return, no doubt. What’s your price?’

  ‘Come with us to Aulis,’ Odysseus replied, patting the flank of his horse and smiling cryptically. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind on the way.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ARTEMIS

  Agamemnon had ordered the leaders of the Greek factions to gather in the wood overlooking the army’s camp, in the glade where the altars to the gods had been placed. The kings and princes arrived one by one, unaccompanied by their captains or advisers, to find two white tents standing on opposite sides of the clearing, their canvas heavy and sagging with the ceaseless rain. Each tent was guarded by one of Agamemnon’s bodyguard, but the King of Men was nowhere to be seen.

  At the centre of the clearing was a single plinth, longer and wider than the marble altars encircling it and gleaming white in the heavy gloom. A wooden pyre stood not far from it, built to the height of a man and covered by a ship’s sail – stretched between four wooden posts – to keep it dry. The canvas flapped noisily in the strong north-easterly winds that whistled through the trees and tugged at the sodden cloaks of the Greek leaders. There were more than two dozen of them now, standing in silence amidst the curtains of rain that swept the clearing. A few blinked up at the skies above, where billowing clouds twisted and curled in different shades of grey, constantly blending and separating in an endless metamorphosis. It was as if Aulis had been sewn into a shroud of endless shadow, where day passed into night and night into day without a glimpse of the sun – a Hades for the living, where every moment was an intolerable drudge and there was no hope of escape. But as they gathered for the sacrifice that Calchas had promised would lift the storm, the leaders’ spirits fell to their lowest ebb. Being warriors, primed for war, they longed for nothing more than to sail to Troy and reap a great victory; but when the awful nature of the sacrifice had been revealed to them there was not one who did not baulk at the horror of it. The cold looks of the men as they passed through the camp on their way to the gathering told them what the common soldiers thought about the price of Agamemnon’s war, even if it was the King of Men’s own daughter who had to die.

  And yet they came as they had been commanded, their faces half hidden by their hoods as they formed a circle around the central altar. Menelaus hung his head and avoided the eyes of the others about him. He had known Agamemnon’s intentions from the beginning, but because of his longing for Helen had not discouraged them; he was complicit in Iphigenia’s death, and the girl’s blood would be as much on his hands as his brother’s.

  Beside him, standing tall and aloof, was Diomedes. His handsome face was held high, but his stern brown eyes looked with disdain at the altar before him, openly declaring his condemnation of the act that would soon take place. Nestor, on the opposite side of the circle, shared the Argive’s distaste, but, as he stood with his hands behind his back, watching the raindrops explode off the marble altar, he knew the will of the gods could not be denied. The other leaders knew it too – Palamedes, Idomeneus, Menestheus, Teucer, Little Ajax and the rest – and had come to the clearing without protest. Even Great Ajax was there, towering above them like a standing stone in the torrents of rain. When it came to battle, his faith was in his own strength rather than the whims of the Olympians, but he knew the storm could not be fought with muscle and bronze alone. It was an unnatural thing sent by the gods, and if Artemis could be appeased only with the death of a young girl then her price had to be met.

  Only two of the highborn Greeks were absent. The first was Odysseus, who had still not returned from Mycenae, and the other was Achilles. On discovering his name had been used to lure Iphigenia to Aulis he had flown into a rage at Agamemnon, reproaching him for his deceit and promising to have no part in the sacrifice. Since then the Phthian prince had remained shut in his tent with Patroclus, refusing all summons from the King of Men. Even Nestor and Diomedes, after being welcomed with the hospitality that befitted their rank, were politely but firmly refused when they asked Achilles to put aside his anger and attend the sacrifice. Agamemnon may have been elected leader of the Greeks, they were told, but he needed to be taught that Achilles would not tolerate the misuse of his name.

  As the group of men awaited the appearance of Agamemnon, a great peal of thunder split the clouds above them. They felt it in the air and the ground beneath their feet, and a moment later sensed the flicker of lightning inside the swirling belly of cloud over their heads. Instinctively they grew uneasy, some of them glancing upwards or across at the tents on either side of the glade. Then, as if in response to their anxious looks, the guard on one of the tents reached across and pulled open the heavy cotton and flax canvas. A moment later Agamemnon stepped out, wearing his lion’s pelt and his breastplate of gold, tin and blue enamel. As he stared at the circle of leaders from beneath the lion’s upper teeth, they could see that his face was set in a fierce grimace and there was an almost fanatical gleam i
n his eyes. Then, stepping forward, he stumbled and clawed at the guy ropes to steady himself. The soldier reached out to help, but Agamemnon pushed him away irritably before continuing across the clearing. His steps were wavering and unsteady, though he tried to walk with his back straight and his head high, and when he reached the altar he gripped the edge of the plinth to keep himself from falling. He looked around at the gathered kings and princes and, to their surprise, he was smiling – a desperate grin that was halfway between amusement and derision.

  ‘Where’s Achilles?’ he demanded.

  ‘He won’t come,’ Nestor answered. ‘As a point of honour.’

  ‘Honour?’ Agamemnon scoffed. ‘Honour! There’s no honour in this for any of us; why should he remain aloof from it all?’

  ‘Because he’s the only sane one among us,’ said Diomedes. ‘This isn’t right, Agamemnon. It will put a curse on all of us.’

  ‘It’s the will of the gods!’ Agamemnon retorted, leaning across the altar towards him, the slurring of his words more pronounced now. ‘Even Achilles in his pride won’t remain untouched. He can hide away in his tent, declaring I’ve offended his honour, but we’re all part of this. The stain of it will fall on him, too.’

  There was another deep roll of thunder followed by a flash of lightning, forking down from the clouds beyond the wood and momentarily sundering the oppressive gloom. Agamemnon threw both fists up at the sky and howled with anger, then drawing a dagger from his belt struck again and again at the marble plinth, sending showers of sparks to join the spray from the rain. But the blade refused to break and, his anger expended, the king slumped across the altar and lowered his head.

  At that point, the guard at the other tent lifted the canvas and Calchas walked out, pulling Iphigenia behind him. She wore a brown cloak that fell almost to her ankles, and her feet were bare as she staggered forward into the ferocious rain, looking confused and fearful. A crown of small yellow, blue and white flowers had been plaited into her hair, reminding the onlookers of the summer that had been driven away from Aulis by the storms, and which would only return when the girl’s life blood had been spilled.