The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  Then a shout erupted from the tree line and Eperitus ran out. With Galatea dead and even Achilles’s unexpected attempt to save the girl stopped, he could no longer restrain himself. The leaders of the expedition, whose distaste at the sacrifice had not quenched their collective thirst for war, turned in surprise as he sprinted towards them. They saw that he was unarmed, but none came forward to stop him. They did not need to. Artemis bent her gaze upon the lone man, then thrust out her palm towards him. It was as if he had hit a wall: Eperitus fell back into the mud as Iphigenia stretched out a hand towards him and whispered ‘Father’. Behind her, the gigantic figure of the goddess faded and was gone. The flames of the pyre disappeared also, leaving only a trail of white smoke as the blackened stumps of wood hissed in the rain. Then Agamemnon raised the dagger above his head in both hands and brought it down. Iphigenia screamed, and a sudden silence followed.

  Eperitus lay sobbing on his side in the waterlogged grass, his body aching and his muscles heavy. His daughter lay still on the altar, and as Agamemnon buried his face in her robes, his shoulders shaking, a line of blood appeared over the edge of the slab and trickled down to the ground. The thunder and lightning had ceased and all about the wood the clouds were rolling away, taking the rain and wind with them. Soon the circle of sky above the clearing was a pale blue, and for the first time in weeks the face of the sun could be seen above Aulis. It bathed the glade in alien light, as if to welcome Iphigenia’s soul, and its heat caused steam to rise from the grass and the sodden clothing of the bent figures that stood or knelt there. But Eperitus cursed it. While the storm had raged, his daughter had lived. Now that it was gone he knew she had departed with it, to become a phantom in the halls of Hades. And soon many more would follow her, Trojans and Greeks alike, to the land of mourning and forgetfulness.

  book

  FOUR

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  THE CHOICES OF EPERITUS

  Eperitus raised his eyes to the marble altar, a bright smudge in his tear-filled vision, and saw the white-robed body lying still and lifeless on top of it. Iphigenia, his daughter, was gone. He had failed her.

  Struggling to his knees, he forced his heavy limbs to crawl towards the plinth, determined to claim the child’s body and take her back to her mother in Mycenae. Then a shadow fell across him and he felt a strong hand underneath his arm, pulling him to his feet and taking the weight of his body.

  ‘Not that way,’ said Odysseus, his voice gentle and kind as he hooked Eperitus’s arm over his shoulder and steered him towards the edge of the clearing.

  ‘No, Odysseus. I’ve got to go to her.’

  ‘Iphigenia is dead, Eperitus. There’s nothing more we can do for her now.’

  The king beckoned to Antiphus, who ran over and took Eperitus’s other arm. Together they forced him against his will from the clearing, and though he struggled at first, twisting to look over his shoulder at the body on the altar, his limbs were too weary and eventually he allowed them to take him into the shadow of the wood. The last thing he saw was Polites lifting Galatea’s body in his arms and, accompanied by Eurylochus and Arceisius, walking into the trees on the opposite side of the glade.

  Long staves of yellow light penetrated the gloom of the wood and birds were singing in the blue skies overhead, but the three men were silent as they crunched through the debris of fallen twigs and leaves. Eperitus, now walking unsupported, was too desolated by the loss of his daughter to talk. It seemed to him that a dream of hope and joy had opened up before him, only to be snatched away again with terrible brutality; and in the wake of that brief dream the world to which he had returned now seemed more forlorn and colourless than ever. It was as if a great light had entered his life, and its snuffing out had left a darkness so deep it devoured all the purpose and beauty from living.

  As they walked down the slope towards the eaves of the wood – beyond which they could see the tents of the Greek camp gleaming white in the sunshine – they heard a loud call and turned to see Achilles, sword in hand, striding through the undergrowth towards them.

  ‘Welcome back, Odysseus,’ he said, shaking the Ithacan’s hand and slapping him on the arm. ‘And you, Eperitus. I wasn’t expecting to see either of you up there.’

  ‘We’ve only just returned from Mycenae,’ Odysseus explained. ‘We headed to the clearing as soon as we heard the sacrifice was underway, but by the time we got there it was almost over. The first thing we saw was the goddess and in his excitement Eperitus ran straight out . . .’

  ‘Save your imagination for the more gullible,’ Achilles said, holding up a hand and smiling. ‘I expect you were watching from the edge of the clearing all along. And I’ll wager my armour it was you who sent that girl out to fool Agamemnon – it has all the marks of one of your tricks. I’d only just reached the clearing myself, determined to stop the sacrifice, when she came striding out with her arrogant swagger, just like a real goddess. Who knows, she might have even walked away with the child if Artemis hadn’t appeared in person.’

  Odysseus, knowing it was pointless to continue with his attempted deception, shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Eperitus for the first time since they had left the clearing. ‘It was a forlorn hope at best, but I admit I hadn’t accounted for the possibility of divine intervention.’

  ‘You did the best any man could do,’ Eperitus said. His eyes were pained with deep sadness, but a glimmer of his normal, resolute spirit had returned.

  ‘Then you were trying to save the girl,’ said Achilles. ‘But why?’

  ‘We could ask the same question of you,’ Eperitus replied.

  Achilles smiled. ‘Then come to my tent and eat with me – we can ask each other all the questions we want there. You’re welcome, too, friend,’ he added, nodding to Antiphus. ‘Now, by your leave, I’ll run ahead and get some meat over the coals. And don’t delay; I’m as hungry as a boar, so I won’t wait too long.’

  With that, he ran off through the trees, leaping a fallen trunk and several thickets of fern that were in his path. As he reached the edge of the wood, Odysseus called his name and the young warrior turned.

  ‘What about your sword?’ Odysseus shouted.

  ‘Light as a feather,’ Achilles replied, waving it over his head, before running out of sight beyond the brow of the hill.

  The sun was bright and hot as they reached the army’s encampment. The only blemish on the blue sky was a pall of black smoke from Iphigenia’s funeral pyre, floating up from the woods and drifting towards the east. The tents of the main camp seemed untouched by the gales that had raged through the wood, though the amount of rain they had absorbed was shown by the steam that curled up from the sea of canvas. Achilles’s own tent – wide and spacious with a high ceiling – seemed hardly to have been affected by the endless days of storm. The dirt floor was covered with long grasses that his Myrmidons had cut and dried over their cooking fires, while the early afternoon sun on the white canvas made the interior bright and warm.

  The Ithacans took the chairs that were offered to them. Kraters of wine were brought shortly afterwards, followed by low tables loaded with platters of bread and freshly cooked lamb. Patroclus and Peisandros joined the small feast and the men satisfied their hunger in busy silence, but for Eperitus who sat morosely and neither ate nor drank. Odysseus watched him with concern as Achilles leaned back in his fur-draped chair, folded his hands across his stomach, and looked at his guests.

  ‘You wanted to know why I tried to save Iphigenia,’ he began. ‘Well, it’s a simple matter of honour. Agamemnon sent you to fetch the girl under the pretence that she was to marry me, did he not?’

  ‘As far as we were aware, that was the reason we were sent to Mycenae,’ Odysseus explained.

  ‘I don’t doubt it, but when I found out Agamemnon had used my name to deceive his wife and daughter I wanted to teach him a lesson. He can call himself King of Men and lord it over the Greeks as much as he likes, but I won’t allow him to drag my name into
his deceptions. And if it hadn’t been for the intervention of Artemis, I’d have stopped this vile sacrifice and sent the girl alive and well back to her mother.’

  ‘Even if it meant the fleet wouldn’t sail to Troy?’ Odysseus asked. ‘I thought you wanted glory, not a quiet life at home?’

  Achilles merely shrugged. ‘Of course I do, but not at the price of my honour. After all, a man’s name is the only thing that will outlive him, and when I’m dead I want the name of Achilles to mean something worthwhile. But I’ve made my point to Agamemnon and now it’s time to look ahead. There’s a greater will than Artemis’s at work here, and you can mark my words: this war will take place and nothing we do is going to prevent it.’

  ‘I’m beginning to agree,’ Odysseus said. ‘Though for a while I’d thought the storms would put a stop to Agamemnon’s plans.’

  ‘There are too many prophecies and oracles around for everything to stop because of an offended goddess, and you can be sure our glorious King of Men is no less a puppet than we are. This war is like a boulder rolling down a mountainside – no force on earth can stand in its way.’

  He held up his krater and Mnemon, his lean and gangly servant, refilled it.

  ‘Now,’ Achilles continued, ‘tell me what was so important about Agamemnon’s daughter that you risked her father’s wrath to save her?’

  Odysseus looked at Eperitus and indicated with a nod that he should answer the question. For a moment, Eperitus was tempted to confess the truth about Iphigenia and why he had tried to stop the sacrifice. After all, Achilles was a father; he would understand. But had he not given up his own child for the promise of glory in Troy? And what of Odysseus’s advice, that the secret of his relationship with Iphigenia should remain between them, for the sake of Clytaemnestra’s safety and his own? He glanced down at the cut grass and the many fleeces spread across the tent floor, his mind suddenly filled with the memory of his daughter lying frightened and alone on the stone altar, then raised his head and looked at Achilles.

  ‘Honour,’ he lied. ‘I promised Clytaemnestra that I would try to save her daughter. I was trying to keep my word.’

  Achilles gave an approving nod, but it was Odysseus who spoke next.

  ‘And I helped him, because Eperitus is my friend and because I didn’t want the storms to end. You mentioned prophecies and oracles, Achilles, so here’s another: the Pythoness told me that if I go to Troy I won’t see my home or family for twenty years, so I’d hoped the storms would spare me from my doom. But they haven’t, it seems, and now I have another question for you. We could have said all this up in the wood – why bring us back to your tent?’

  At this, Achilles laughed out loud and leaned across to Patroclus. ‘What did I tell you? There isn’t a more astute man in the whole Greek army – not even Palamedes.’

  ‘Oh, I remember Odysseus’s cleverness from Sparta,’ Patroclus replied in his cold, clipped voice. ‘After all, it’s thanks to his idea for the oath that we’re all here now.’

  ‘He could hardly have foreseen Helen being kidnapped by a Trojan, Patroclus,’ Achilles continued. ‘But you’re right, Odysseus, there is another reason for asking you here. Your own protection.’

  ‘Protection from what?’

  ‘Agamemnon, of course. I’m not the only one who’ll be linking the appearance of that girl with your special kind of cunning, Odysseus. Why would she have impersonated a goddess and tried to coax Agamemnon into releasing his daughter if she wasn’t put up to it? Clytaemnestra could have been behind it, you might say, but with Eperitus running out into the glade like that – in front of every king and prince in the army – you’ll have a hard task convincing Agamemnon you weren’t trying to prevent his sacrifice. And sooner or later, when he has recovered from what he’s done, he’ll want you to answer for it.’

  ‘And how will you protect us?’ Eperitus asked.

  ‘We’re guilty of the same crime,’ Achilles replied with a knowing grin. ‘By openly inviting you to my tent I’m letting Agamemnon know that he takes his vengeance out on all of us, or none of us. But whereas he can afford to punish you, Odysseus, because your men only form a small part of his force, he won’t dare to question me. He needs me.’

  ‘The Myrmidons are renowned fighters and their leader’s reputation as a warrior is second to none,’ Eperitus responded, restraining his anger at Achilles’s arrogance. ‘But Agamemnon has enough ships and soldiers to conquer Troy without the contributions of either Ithaca or Phthia. How can you be certain he won’t expel you from the expedition, too?’

  ‘Because Troy can’t fall without Achilles,’ Peisandros said, leaning his huge bulk forward and taking a handful of meat and bread from the platters before him. He crammed them into his mouth before continuing. ‘Weren’t you there when Calchas made his prophecy before the council of Greek leaders? Either way, Agamemnon believes everything the priest says: he killed his own daughter at Calchas’s suggestion, so he’s not going to risk sending Achilles and his Myrmidons home, is he?’

  ‘I remember the prophecy,’ Odysseus said, ‘and what you say is right, Achilles, so we’re grateful for your protection.’

  Achilles gave a small nod. ‘It’s the best thing for the expedition, whether Agamemnon knows it or not. His insistence on this sacrifice has already lost him a lot of support, and if he starts singling out his best men for defying him with good reason then the alliance against Troy will fall apart. Besides, I like you both. Even though I prefer openness to guile, this war is going to need your intelligence, Odysseus; and as for you, Eperitus, you share my sense of honour and that’s admirable in any man. And what’s more, I’m going to give you some advice for the attack on Troy.’ He leaned forward confidentially and lowered his voice. ‘Other than Patroclus and Peisandros here, no one else knows what I’m about to tell, so you must keep it to yourselves. My mother has the power to see the future, and before we left Phthia she told me that the first Greek to land within sight of Troy would die. She knew I would want that honour for myself, so maybe she’s just trying to keep me alive a little longer. But I’ve never known her foresight to be wrong so when the attack comes I’m going to hold back. I suggest you do the same.’

  He sat back up and stretched his legs out in front of him. Odysseus drained his krater and signalled to Mnemon for more wine.

  ‘I’ve never known a man so bound up by divination and augury,’ he said as the servant filled his cup. ‘How can you tolerate it?’

  Achilles smiled broadly and held his hands up nonchalantly. ‘It runs in the family. My mother was chosen by Zeus to be his bride, until the Fates prophesied that her son would become more powerful than his father. So he married her to Peleus instead. But one takes whatever precautions are practical. Take Mnemon here. My mother once had a dream that if ever I killed a son of Apollo, Apollo would kill me out of vengeance, so she gave me Mnemon as a slave to remind me of the fact. He can’t cook and he always mixes the wine too weak; and when it comes to putting on my armour, he can hardly lift my sword, let alone my spear or shield. But he knows every son of Apollo by rote, including where they live and who their sons are, just in case. If ever I face one in a fight – and Apollo has a few bastards in Ilium – it’s Mnemon’s duty to let me know.’

  The Ithacans looked at the tall, ungainly slave and did not envy him the task of restraining Achilles in the heat of battle.

  As Achilles had predicted, no mention was made of the incidents in the glade, either by Agamemnon or any of the other nobles who had been present. Instead, the King of Men remained ensconced in his tent, doling out orders for the fleet to sail the following morning. Perhaps, Eperitus thought, he was keen not to highlight the snubs to his authority and risk widening the cracks that were already appearing in his tenuous alliance of states. And perhaps it would have too much of an irony to punish the acts of men who were seemingly trying to save his daughter from death at his own hands.

  By the time Odysseus, Eperitus and Antiphus returned to the Ith
acan camp a messenger was already waiting for them, bringing Agamemnon’s orders to prepare for an immediate departure. By the end of the day, Eperitus had worked harder than he had done in months to help get the Ithacan force ready to sail. Though he no longer had any heart for the expedition against Troy, especially under the command of the man who had murdered his daughter, he was glad of the distraction from his dark thoughts, which had been ranging between despair and vengeful anger since leaving the glade.

  Men had to be organized back into their correct companies, weapons and equipment had to be stowed as efficiently as possible, and provisions for a long journey needed to be obtained. As there was no centralized supply system for the army, most of the essentials had to be squabbled over with the other factions, and items such as fruit, livestock and salt could only be extracted from the local populace at many times their normal worth. Eventually, though, everything was ready, and as the Ithacans began to settle down for the evening Eperitus slipped out of the camp and wandered into the trees.