by David
Then, amazingly, Achilles stirred and moved. He struggled to his knees, then stood. His face was gray with pain and the effects of the poison. The crowd instantly went silent, and the skirmishes on the edge of the crowd ceased.
Achilles swayed on his feet. “Not… Hektor,” he gasped.
Then he slowly raised his sword and slammed it into the throat of one of the Followers. Agamemnon’s remaining men sprang to the attack, and Hektor and Achilles stood back to back to take them all on.
The thousands of watchers were awestruck as the two blood-covered warriors, both beyond hope of life, battled against seven of Agamemnon’s elite. Hektor was bleeding from a score of cuts, and one arm was so badly injured that it no longer was functioning. It was impossible that Achilles was still standing, let alone fighting. The end was inevitable. Yet it seemed neither champion would allow himself to fall while there were still enemies to fight.
Odysseus, panting and cursing, finally reached the priest, who watched the battle, his eyes alight with pleasure. Odysseus grabbed him by the throat and, with a roar, lifted him from his feet. The priest grappled panic-stricken in the king’s powerful grip, his face turning red. Odysseus delved in the pouch at the man’s side and brought forth a small gold vial. He dropped the priest.
“Enough!” he bellowed, his voice like thunder above the noise of battle.
The fighting in the circle paused, and the three Followers who were still alive stepped back uncertainly. Odysseus prized open the phial, which was half-filled with milky liquid. He sniffed it. “Here is your treachery!” he shouted, holding it up. “And here is your poisoner!” He pushed the priest forward.
Agamemnon strode up and snatched the poison phial. “What is this?” he asked, his voice shaking with genuine anger.
“It is called atropa,” Odysseus replied, raising his voice so that everyone could hear. “It is used by the Scythians of the Somber Sea to dip their arrows in. It causes dizziness, raving, paralysis, and death. It is an evil poison, a coward’s weapon.”
“You dog!” Agamemnon grabbed the poisoned sword and plunged it into the priest’s belly. The force of the blow knocked the man down onto the hot coals. He started to shriek, his robes bursting into flames around him. Within moments his desperate thrashing ceased, and his blackening body was still.
In the arena Hektor fell to his knees with a groan that echoed off the walls of Troy, blood streaming from a score of wounds. Achilles, still standing only by a massive feat of will, raised his sword and, with a last cry, plunged it into the chest of a Follower. Then he fell dead to the ground. The remaining two Followers looked to Agamemnon, uncertain what to do.
With a final effort Hektor picked up Achilles’ sword with trembling fingers and placed it on the warrior’s breast, then closed the dead hands over the hilt. He rested on his heels and bowed his head. Odysseus heard his final sigh. Then there was silence.
Hektor was dead.
His heart breaking, Odysseus sank to one knee. Across the circle he saw Thibo, Achilles’ shield bearer, do the same thing, followed by all the Myrmidons. Then, one by one, every man around the battleground knelt in tribute to the two great warriors.
Only Agamemnon stood alone. He turned angrily on his heel and stalked away.
Odysseus bowed his head, sick at heart for the part he had played in the deaths of the two great warriors. Then in the quiet he heard a hissing sound. In the trench before him the dying coals were giving off small spurts of steam. Odysseus raised his eyes to the sky. Unnoticed by anyone as the titanic battle had gone on, thunderclouds had gathered overhead. It became darker as he watched. Then there was a deafening crack of thunder, and a bolt of lightning flashed through the sky above Troy’s walls. The skies opened, and the rain poured down.
He had no idea how long he knelt there in the rain and mud. Eventually Odysseus became aware that people were moving about. He opened his eyes wearily. The Myrmidons were gathered around Achilles, preparing to take him away.
Odysseus levered himself to his feet and walked across to the arena. Red-bearded Thibo was standing by Hektor’s body.
“You will return Hektor to his city?” Odysseus asked.
“I will, King,” the warrior said. “Had he lived, great Achilles would have treated his fallen foe with honor. Then I will take my Myrmidons, and we will sail home. Our king will go to the pyre, but not in this accursed place.”
Odysseus nodded. He suddenly realized that the men around him had fallen silent, and the only sound was the rain drumming on metal armor. He looked up and saw Andromache. She was walking toward them alone through the rain, dressed in a robe of scarlet flame, her face stern, her head high.
She came up to him. She was ashen-faced and her hair was plastered to her head and shoulders, yet he thought her then the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Helikaon was right, he thought. Truly you are a goddess.
She looked down on Hektor’s body, and when she looked up at him again, her eyes were brimming with tears. “Well, Tale Spinner, are you happy with this day’s work?”
“Two of my friends are dead. What would you have me say, lass?”
“That this will all end now, and you will return to your ships and go home.”
“I will return to my ships and go home.”
She arched her eyebrows, unbelieving. “Truly?”
He told her, “Ithaka is leaving this place. I do not believe the priest chose to poison the blade which killed Achilles.” He glanced inquiringly at Thibo, who nodded his head.
“I suspect Agamemnon’s hand behind this,” Thibo agreed. “It was an evil act.”
Odysseus told Andromache, “This is Thibo of the Myrmidons. He will see that Hektor’s body is returned to the city with honor. Then he will take Achilles’ army and go home to Thessaly. And I will be back with Penelope and my new son come the Feast of Demeter.”
He saw hope in Andromache’s gray eyes and was quick to quash it.
“We once made a pact, you and I, to tell each other only the truth,” he said. She nodded, remembering the Bay of Blue Owls where they first had met. “Agamemnon will not return home with his armies and fleets. Troy will fall, Andromache. The rain will not save you. In truth, it means only that everyone in the city will be slaughtered before they die of thirst.”
She caught her breath at his harsh words.
“Troy cannot be saved.” He glanced at the listening soldiers and looked into her eyes. “But if you wish to save your son,” he told her, “look to the north.”
He turned away and left her standing grief-stricken in the rain.
Agamemnon was furious. He strode down the road to his palace, flanked by his Mykene guard and the last two Followers. Can no one follow a simple plan? he thought. The priest was supposed to smear poison on the blade unnoticed as everyone watched the battle, then drop the phial into the hot coals. Instead, greed had made him keep it, and greed had been his undoing. And as for that interfering oaf Odysseus, it was well past time to do something about him. His nuisance value now outweighed his usefulness.
Agamemnon swept into the megaron, where the kings already were gathering, quaffing goblets of wine cheerfully. When they saw him, their demeanor changed to watchfulness. He knew they found him hard to predict, and that pleased him.
He looked around, then sighed and shook his head. “Our great Achilles is dead,” he said sorrowfully. “Our champion felled by treachery.”
Kygones of Lykia was watching him narrowly. “Yes, a tragedy for us all,” he commented drily.
“I heard the Myrmidons say they will leave now and take his body home,” Menelaus slurred. He had been swigging unwatered wine for much of the day.
“We do not need the Myrmidons. All the more plunder for the rest of us,” Idomeneos said with relish.
The doors opened, and Odysseus came in, followed by old Nestor. The Ithakan king stomped up to Agamemnon, his face red with anger.
“Convince me, King,” Odysseus stormed, “that you did not comm
and the poxy priest to poison Hektor’s sword!”
Agamemnon replied smoothly, “This is madness, Odysseus. Why would I poison our own champion?”
“Because, by the great god Zeus, one death was never enough for you. You wanted them both dead! And if Achilles’ blade was poisoned and he lived to find out, then he would have killed you himself, as I am minded to do myself for today’s foul deeds.”
Agamemnon leaped back and drew his sword, and his Followers moved to his side, blades at the ready. The Battle King was well prepared to fight. To see the meddlesome Odysseus lying on the floor with his lifeblood pumping out was something he long had hoped for. Around them the other kings had their hands to their sword hilts, yet, Agamemnon realized with shock, at least two of them, old Nestor and Menestheos of Athens, were glaring at him.
He took a deep breath, sheathed his sword, and said placatingly, “You are misled by your grief, Odysseus. This is a day of tragedy for all of us. Our champion Achilles is walking the Dark Road. We will never see his like again.” The words of the dying priest in the Cave of Wings came back to him. “The Age of Heroes is passing,” he added.
“By all the bastard gods, I am sick of it all,” Odysseus told him. “I will take my army and return to the bay tonight. At dawn we sail for Ithaka.”
Agamemnon felt a flood of relief and pleasure. The fat fool is leaving at last, he thought. The gods must truly love the Mykene.
Instead he said coldly, “So your pledge to me is worthless, Ithaka.”
“It was not the pledge that was worthless but the recipient,” Odysseus replied scornfully.
Nestor stepped in before Agamemnon could react. “My army will leave Troy, too. I am an old man, and I wish to see no more killing, no more death,” he said. “I will start for Pylos come daybreak.”
Agamemnon turned on him. “Your betrayal will not be forgotten, old man,” he spit. “You remain king only on my suffrance. When the troops of Mykene return home in triumph, be prepared to defend your flax fields and sandy beaches.”
Nestor flushed and countered angrily, “Do not seek to threaten me, Agamemnon. My sons are dead because of the dread Helikaon, but I have strong grandsons aplenty. If your troops march on our borders, they will be waiting for you there with sharp swords.
“If you ever return to the Lion’s Hall,” he added. “There are a myriad of leaves on the tree and a myriad of ways to die,” he quoted.
“You pious old fool,” Idomeneos snapped. “Even the gods are tired of your pompous advice and your tedious tales about when you were a young warrior. We will be better off without you.”
There was violence in the air. Odysseus glanced at his old friend Meriones. He was the only man in the megaron who had not drawn his sword. The Ithakan king guessed that his friend felt the way he did, but Meriones’ loyalty to Idomeneos was legendary.
Then Agamemnon sheathed his blade and sat down on a carved chair. He sipped a little water and smoothly changed the subject.
“The Trojans will be celebrating tonight,” he commented, as if the angry exchanges had not happened. “They will have water enough now to last into the autumn. We cannot wait while they die of thirst, so it is time to implement Odysseus’ plan to take the city.” He gestured to the Ugly King. “Remain with us, Ithaka, and by tomorrow night our soldiers could be inside the walls of Troy. You have stayed the course this far. Do not go now, on the eve of our triumph.” The words were bitter in his mouth, but the tension in the room eased and men sheathed their swords, picking up their wine cups again.
“We will sail at dawn,” Odysseus said tiredly.
“Good riddance. More plunder for the rest of us,” Idomeneos repeated.
Odysseus turned on him. “That reminds me, Sharptooth. You still owe me your breastplate, won by the warrior Banokles in a fistfight. I will collect it from you before I leave.”
Idomeneos scowled. Smiling, Odysseus walked from the company of the kings for the last time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE TROJAN HORSE
The horse was swimming. Skorpios knew the beasts could swim. Indeed, he had seen many swimming for their lives in the Hellespont after the battle of Carpea. But he had never sat astride a swimming horse. It was very peaceful. The sea was blue, although above them the sky was as black as pitch, and the moon hung on the horizon like a hole in the heavens. It was bigger than Skorpios had ever seen it, and his mount was floating toward it along a path of silver moonlight.
Looking about curiously, he saw that there were fish all around him. They were very big and were flashing past close to his legs. He wondered nervously if fish had teeth. He was answered when one swam up to him and nibbled his knee. It did not hurt, but it tickled him. He kicked out, and it darted away.
He noticed that Mestares was riding alongside him. His handsome face was corpse gray, and one arm appeared to be missing.
“The sea is red,” said the warrior.
Skorpios was surprised to see that it was red.
“Go back, Skorpios. Go back while you can,” said Mestares, smiling at him kindly.
Skorpios realized his leg was hurting now from the fish bite. And there was a pain in his side. He had been riding for too long. He was very tired. He turned his mount and headed away from the moon as Mestares had ordered, but it was dark that way, and he felt very much alone.
When he awoke, he did not want to move. He was lying on the ground with his back against something warm. He opened his eyes and saw his comrades sleeping around him. He realized it was full daylight and, with a groan, sat up.
Then he remembered. They had come in the night, an army of Mykene soldiers, hundreds of them. Caught by surprise, the Trojan horsemen had leaped quickly to defend themselves, and the battle had been vicious. But there had been too many of the enemy, and the Trojans had been unprepared. Skorpios had been gashed in the knee by a lance but had managed to kill the wielder, slicing his sword into the man’s inner thigh. He thought he had killed four or five of the enemy soldiers before he turned to see the pommel of a sword crashing toward his head.
His head still ached because of the noise of horses screaming. There was a pain in his side as well as in his knee, and one eye was gummy with blood. Moaning, he rolled over and got to his knees, then vomited on the ground. He looked around. It was still and silent in the woodland glade. Everywhere there were dead men and horses. He had been lying with his back to a bay stallion. It seemed to be sleeping peacefully. He could not see a wound. He thought it was Mestares’ mount, Warlord. Then he recalled his dream. He saw Mestares’ body lying close by, a broken sword through his belly, his open eyes full of dust.
Skorpios stood, clutching his side. He pulled aside his bloody shirt to look at the wound. A sword had gone cleanly through the flesh, and he could see the neat shape of the blade on his white skin. It was bleeding, but not much. He could not remember being wounded in the side. He checked his leg. It was a nasty gash and had bled heavily. But most of the blood on him seemed to have come from his head. He felt a clot of blood above his right ear. He tried to remember what his friend Olganos once had told him about bandaging wounds. Some had to be bandaged heavily, some left free to drain. He could not remember which was which.
His throat was parched, and he started looking for a water skin. It was only then that he realized that all the Trojan bodies, including his own, had been stripped of armor. They thought me dead, he said to himself.
He frowned. Looking around, he started to count the bodies of his comrades. There were not enough. Some got away, he thought, and his heart lifted.
Staggering around among the corpses of friends and foes, at last he found his own belongings, including a half-full water skin. He threw his head back and drank deeply. The taste was like nectar, and he felt strength flooding back into his body. The pain in his head receded a little.
Skorpios found bandages and wound one around his leg, sloshing some water onto the wound first. He looked at his side again and decided it would
be impossible to bandage. He delved into other men’s bags until he had gathered some food. He found a full water skin. His best find was an unbroken sword hidden under the body of a Mykene soldier. He thrust it into the scabbard still hanging from his waist and instantly felt stronger. He picked up a bronze knife. It was blunt, but he took it anyway.
Then, with a last look at his dead comrades, he set out for the north, limping on his injured knee.
He had been traveling for some time, and his strength was failing, when he saw a stray horse cropping dry grass under a tree. It was trailing its reins and still had a lion-skin shabrack over its back. He whistled to it, and, well trained, it trotted over to him. From the decorative plaiting of the reins Skorpios thought it was a Mykene mount.
With effort he climbed onto its back, then turned again in the direction of Troy. He would meet the enemy soon, and when he did, he would kill as many of them as he could before he died.
He felt no fear.
“Great Zeus, I’m hungry!” Banokles complained. “My belly thinks my throat’s been sliced.”
“You’ve said that every day since we got here,” Kalliades pointed out.
“Well, it’s been true every day since we got here.”
They stood on the south wall of Troy, gazing down on the enemy armies. The ashes from Hektor’s funeral pyre still were floating by on the breeze. The massive pyre had burned all night, fueled by wood brought by Trojans from all parts of the city. Kalliades had seen young men carrying costly furniture to chop up for firewood and old men bearing armfuls of twigs from dead plants. Everyone wanted to play his part, however small, in the death rites for their hero.
Scented branches of cedar and fragrant herbs had been placed on top of the pyre, followed by Hektor’s body in a richly embroidered robe of gold, his dead hands clasped around his sword hilt, a gold ring in his mouth for the ferryman.