by Glyn Iliffe
At that moment, he saw Aeneas appear on the walls above the Ithacan army. His rich armour flashed in the sunlight and left no one in doubt of his presence, as his bright sword cleaved the head of one of the attackers from its shoulders and sent the body plunging down into the press of men below. Eperitus’s eyes were not on the Dardanian prince, though, but on the warrior who accompanied him. He stood a head taller than the men around him, who moved quickly aside at the sight of his powerful physique, battle-scarred face and dark, merciless eyes. He placed his hands on the stone parapet and, ignoring the Locrian arrows, looked out over the seething mass of soldiers below, sweeping his hard gaze across their upturned faces until it fell on Eperitus. The faintest flicker of a smile touched Apheidas’s lips as he met his son’s eyes.
Chapter Three
THE TEMPLE OF ARTEMIS
For a moment Eperitus was aware of nothing but the face of his father watching him. The spears, stones and arrows that were sending men to their deaths on both sides of the struggle were no longer a concern. The clash of weapons and the screams of men faded from his hearing, just as the figures moving all around him and on the walls above became colourless blurs, like shadows in a dream. Now all that mattered was the face on the ramparts, the closeness of the man who had haunted his nightmares for two decades, whose death he had wanted for so long that the desire to kill him seemed to have tormented his thoughts for ever. And now, after ten years of searching for his father across the battlefields of Ilium, he was suddenly and unexpectedly a spear’s cast away. All he needed to do was pull back his arm and hurl his weapon and all the hatred and shame would end.
And yet he was unable to move. For the first time in many years he felt afraid. It was not the churning of his stomach before every battle, which soon disappeared after the first arrow was fired or the first spear was thrown; it was the fear of confronting something so integral to his existence for so many years that in destroying it he might destroy himself. Who would he be if his father was gone? Apheidas had murdered his own king to usurp the throne, and when Eperitus had refused to join him he had sent his son into exile. The shame of that treachery was the driving force behind Eperitus’s desire for honour and glory; his anger at his father’s terrible acts gave him his ferocity in battle; and the knowledge that the old traitor had given his service to Troy kept Eperitus’s own loyalty to Greece focused and sharp. Indeed, Apheidas made Eperitus what he was.
He looked up at the battlements and into the dark eyes that had controlled him for so long, and despite the fear and the doubt that were tearing at his insides he knew he must kill his father. It was the only way he could be free to discover his own self, to move on from his dark past and become whatever the gods had intended him to be. With heavy limbs he drew back his spear and threw it at the crowd of defenders on the walls above. The black shaft seemed to quiver as it flew straight at its target. For an unbelievable moment Eperitus thought it would strike home, then Apheidas leaned to one side and the bronze head thumped into the chest of a Lycian archer behind him. It tore through the man’s tunic of layered cloth, split open his heart and came out through his back, just below the shoulder bone. As he fell, one of his comrades stepped forward and aimed an arrow directly at Eperitus, but before he could release it Apheidas grabbed him by his shoulders and threw him from the walls, to be hacked to death by the attackers below.
With his spear cast, Eperitus felt the heaviness lift from his limbs and the old anger return. He drew his sword and barged through the ranks of soldiers who stood between him and the walls. Leaping into the ditch, he ran to one of the ladders and pulled aside a pale-faced soldier who was about to mount. A large stone thumped into the earth beside him and arrows whistled past his ears, but he raised his grandfather’s heavy shield over his head and began to climb.
The rungs were slippery with blood and his progress was awkward without the full use of his hands, but as more stones bounced off his shield and the points of half a dozen arrows nudged through the four-fold leather he felt no fear, only an iron-like determination to reach the top and get among the defenders. On either side of him as he ascended he could see the length of the ditch filled with the dead and the living. Doubled ladders lashed together with belts were being raised at every point now and under the cover of the Locrian archers hundreds of men were renewing the attack on the walls.
‘Eperitus!’ boomed a voice from a neighbouring ladder.
It was Polites.
‘Where’s Odysseus?’ Eperitus shouted back.
Polites shrugged and pointed to the battlements above, before resuming his ascent in silence. Eperitus looked up from beneath his shield and saw the parapet just ahead of him. As he watched, a pair of hands seized the top of the ladder and tried to push it sideways. The flimsy structure wobbled and Eperitus’s body tensed as he struggled to keep his balance, but a moment later he heard a scream and a body fell past him to the ditch below. The ladder straightened again and he quickened his ascent, steadying himself with his sword hand on the rungs before his face. As he reached the top a spear point jabbed through his cloak and scraped across the back of his leather cuirass. Eperitus hooked his shield over the parapet and instinctively lashed out with his sword. The obsessively sharpened edge found flesh and bone and a bitter cry of pain followed; his attacker’s spear fell down to the ditch below, a severed hand still gripping the shaft.
Climbing up on to the top of the wall, he found himself looking down at a dozen dark-skinned, bearded faces, eyes wide with fear and exhilaration and the knowledge that death was close. He kicked out at the nearest and sent him sprawling backwards, then jumped down among the others and buried his sword in the chest of a young spearman, killing him instantly. He tugged his weapon free and advanced. An archer tossed his bow aside and drew his short sword against the fearsome Ithacan, only to have his arm lopped off above the elbow. Eperitus barged him aside with his shield and – sensing that more Ithacans were jumping down on to the wall behind him – pushed forward into the mass of Lycians and Dardanians, all the time scanning for signs of his father.
By now the walls were crowded with men from both sides, jostling against each other in a struggle for mastery. As Eperitus sent another opponent tumbling from the battlements with a heave of his shield, he noticed for the first time the collection of simple, flat-roofed dwellings that both sides were fighting to possess: a homogenous sprawl of dusty houses, brightened here and there by the broader structure of a temple or by an open market square, but otherwise unremarkable and not worth the blood of so many brave men. Then he caught the flash of a bronze-scaled breastplate out of the corner of his eye and turned to see a Lycian noble pushing forward through his men. He carried the tall shield favoured by most high-born Trojans and wielded a huge, double-headed axe, which he swung at Eperitus’s head. Eperitus dodged the blow and punched out with his shield, knocking his attacker back into the press of his men.
‘Where’s Apheidas?’ he demanded, speaking in his opponent’s language.
‘Damn Apheidas! Fight me!’ the noble responded angrily, the spittle flecking his beard.
He sprang forward, cleaving the air with his axe. Eperitus ducked aside and lunged with his sword, forcing the Lycian to fall back and draw his shield across his body.
‘Tell me where Apheidas is and I’ll let you live.’
The Lycian laughed and brought his heavy axe down in another attack. The edge sparked against the stone parapet as Eperitus avoided the blow with easy agility. A moment later the point of the Greek’s sword found the Lycian’s groin and he crumpled to his knees, clutching at the wound in a vain effort to stop his lifeblood pouring out of his body. Eperitus kicked him to the stone floor of the battlements and placed his blade against the man’s neck.
‘I can kill you now or leave you to a slow death. Where’s Apheidas?’
The man looked up at him with pain-filled eyes, his warrior’s pride replaced by the humbling certainty that death was near.
‘He we
nt back down into the city,’ the Lycian whispered through gritted teeth. ‘Now keep your promise and send me to Hades.’
Eperitus pushed his sword point into the man’s throat then glared at the remaining Lycians, who looked on in shock at the defeat of their champion. From every part of the wall now there came the sound of bronze beating against bronze, the calls and cries of men and the strange shuffling of leather sandals on stone as crowds of warriors fought desperately to kill each other. Then, as Eperitus raised his shield and readied his sword to attack, an arrow split the air past his right ear and stuck in the throat of a Lycian spearman, who gasped horribly as he struggled to gain control of his dying body.
‘Even you can’t take them all alone,’ said a familiar voice.
Eperitus turned to see the scruffy figure of Antiphus at his shoulder, with the bulk of Polites looming up behind him. A moment later Odysseus joined them, his face spattered with blood and his sword running with gore.
‘I knew you couldn’t stay out of things for long,’ the king said, his earlier rebuke seemingly forgotten. ‘It’s not in your nature.’
Then he raised his shield before him and ran at the Lycians, shouting his defiance. Eperitus and the others followed, sweeping all resistance before them until the will of the defenders cracked and many began to drop their weapons in surrender. The remainder fled back down the steps that led to the city streets, closely followed by streams of Greeks. As Eperitus joined the pursuit he caught sight of a fresh body of enemy spearmen and archers, standing in ordered ranks at the far end of a broad, heavily rutted street that led to the heart of the city. At the head of this unbloodied reserve were Sarpedon and Aeneas, their armour bright in the sunshine as they ordered the stragglers from the walls to join the solid lines of their comrades. Then, just as Eperitus was thinking that the battle for Lyrnessus was far from over, a great crash from the southernmost point of the city signalled the fall of the gates to Achilles and his Myrmidons. Soon the whole of Lyrnessus would be filled with Greeks. Realizing there was no hope of defending the city, Sarpedon and Aeneas suddenly began ordering their soldiers to fall back to the northern gate.
Eperitus jumped down on to the dusty, body-strewn street, closely followed by Odysseus.
‘They’ve given up,’ the king said, watching the hasty but well-ordered retreat. ‘Form the men into lines, quickly – I want to catch them while they’re still inside the city. If they get out on to the open plain most of them will escape back to Troy.’
Eperitus looked at Odysseus, whose stern eyes were determined to kill as many of the enemy as possible, and shook his head.
‘I can’t.’
Odysseus shot him a questioning look. ‘Can’t?’
‘I saw my father on the walls. He’s here, somewhere in the city. I have to find him.’
‘Apheidas is here! Are you sure?’
Eperitus nodded and Odysseus raised his eyebrows.
‘Then I’ll come with you. Diomedes and Achilles can lead the pursuit, and Antiphus can command the Ithacans . . .’
‘No, Odysseus,’ Eperitus replied. ‘Sarpedon and Aeneas will fight a hard rearguard and the men will need you to lead them. Besides, I have to face Apheidas by myself. You understand that.’
‘Of course,’ Odysseus answered. He gripped Eperitus’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. ‘Go and do what you have to, and may Athena protect you.’
With that, he turned and looked up at the walls, where Diomedes was giving orders for the captives to be properly treated.
‘Come on, you old war dog! Leave the prisoners to the guards; there’s still plenty of fighting to be had down here.’
‘And I’ll be in the thick of it before you are, you red-headed laggard,’ Diomedes shouted back.
Eperitus left them and ran after the fleeing Lycians and Dardanians, hoping for a glimpse of his father. The force under Sarpedon and Aeneas had already disappeared from sight, but here and there lone soldiers were still running from the walls, desperate to escape death or capture at the hands of the victorious Greeks. Ahead of him was a stumbling figure, covered in blood and clutching at the stump of his arm. Eperitus caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder.
‘Where’s Apheidas?’ he demanded.
The man stared at him blankly, his brown face pale from shock and loss of blood. Eperitus shoved him aside and ran on to where a young soldier, barely more than a boy, was cowering in a doorway. He shrieked as Eperitus sprinted up to him, sword still in hand, and could only shake his head in terror as the same question was pressed on him.
Cursing, Eperitus left him and ran on down the street, his heart beating fast with the fear that his father would escape. He had waited too long to face him and despite his earlier doubt he was now filled with an urgent need to confront Apheidas. He reached a turn in the street and saw a small market square ahead of him. The tail of the enemy rearguard was marching across it, heading towards the gate in the northern wall of the city. An archer recognized his old-fashioned but unmistakeably Greek shield and called to his comrades, who loosed a dozen hasty arrows towards him. They were hopelessly out of range, though, and the nearest bounced harmlessly off the wall beside his head.
Unfazed, Eperitus scanned the retreating army for sight of his father, but knew in his heart that he was not among them. Seeing a narrow side road, he dashed down it as more arrows sailed down to stick into the earth around his running feet.
Soon he was losing himself among the dark, deserted alleyways of Lyrnessus, hoping beyond hope that he would stumble across Apheidas among the shadows. But every door was closed and the windows he passed revealed only empty rooms, devoid of all removable possessions. The city’s population had abandoned their homes in a hurry, fearful of the slaughter, rape and enslavement that a triumphant Greek army would bring. Even the dogs had gone, leaving the streets and marketplaces temporarily bereft of the signs of civilized life.
But the void they had left was already being filled. Here and there Eperitus saw the stooping, misshapen figures of wounded men, fleeing the destruction at the gates and on the battlements and desperately seeking a place to hide from the wrath of the victors. Eperitus ignored them, knowing they would be too confused or frightened to be of any use in his hunt for his father. His sharp senses picked up the harsh shouts of warriors drawing in on every side, closely followed by the crackle of flames and the smell of burning. He emerged on to another broad avenue – which he guessed must run from the southern gate – and saw a dozen black-clad men to his right.
‘There’s one,’ a voice shouted.
A spear flew fast and accurate towards Eperitus’s head. He leaned to his left and flung up his shield, knocking the missile aside with the flat of the layered oxhide.
‘Hold, damn you,’ he shouted, as the battle-crazed Myrmidons readied their weapons to attack. ‘I’m Eperitus, captain of the Ithacan royal guard.’
‘Impossible! Achilles was first in the city, and we were right beside him as the gates fell. The Ithacans are still trying to take the walls.’
Eperitus gave a derisive laugh. ‘Odysseus and I were inside the city while you were still knocking on the doors. And if you still doubt who I am, then I know two of you at least are from Peisandros’s command. What Trojan would know that? Now get about your business and leave me to mine.’
He ran on, leaving the confused Myrmidons staring after him. He passed more groups of Achilles’s men and several bodies as he went. As the sky began to fill with dark palls of smoke he heard the heavy clash of weapons ringing in the distance. The fight with the enemy’s rearguard had begun, but whether Odysseus and Diomedes were leading the attack, or whether Achilles had caught up with them first, Eperitus could not guess. Then, as he reached an open space before a squat temple of yellow stone, a man stepped out from a doorway and lunged at him with a sword. Eperitus turned aside at the last moment, just as the blade passed beneath his arm and scraped against his cuirass. The sharpened upper edge slid along the soft skin beneath hi
s bicep, burning like hot iron as it opened his flesh. Wincing with pain, he stepped away and threw his shield across his body as his assailant drew his arm back for a second thrust. The point jabbed at the oxhide, but was too weak to penetrate. Eperitus responded with a foot to the man’s groin, doubling him over. Before he could bring his sword down into the man’s skull, a second appeared from the same doorway and took the blow on the boss of his oval shield. A third man followed and suddenly Eperitus found himself facing three fully armed Lycians, with no inclination to retreat until they had taken their revenge on at least one Greek.
‘Out of my way,’ he warned them. ‘I’ve no quarrel with you.’
‘But we have with you, you Greek scum,’ the third man answered.
They fanned out around him. Eperitus saw the man to his right crouch, ready to spring, and immediately lashed out with his sword. The man lifted his shield, but too late to prevent the point of the blade slicing across his eyeballs and the bridge of his nose. He screamed in agony and fell to his knees, clutching at his face. An instant later his comrades attacked, screaming defiance as their swords beat down simultaneously against Eperitus’s raised shield. Using his great strength to throw both men back, he brought his sword around in a low sweep at the legs of the nearest. His opponent saw the attack too late and could only watch in horror as the blade hacked into his left leg below the knee. He collapsed on to his shield, thrashing about with pain and spraying blood across the dry earth of the street.
The remaining Lycian looked at his two colleagues, the first now unconscious and the second oblivious to everything but the pain of his wound, and decided he had seen enough. Throwing down his weapons, he turned and fled. Without hesitation, Eperitus placed his foot on the chest of his second victim.
‘Have you seen Apheidas?’
The man gave a great sob of pain and tried to twist free, but Eperitus leaned his weight upon him and slapped the flat of his sword against his cheek.