by Glyn Iliffe
After the setting of the sun had ended the day’s training, Eperitus joined Arceisius, Polites and Antiphus around a small fire, where they ate a meal of skewered fish and barley cakes. It was woeful fare compared to the food Astynome had cooked for them over the past two weeks, but there was the wine from Ithaca and soon Omeros joined them, his round, happy face immediately bringing cheer to their hearts. As the stars began to emerge overhead he sat his tortoiseshell lyre in his lap and sang them more of the songs he had learned at home. His fingers stroked the strings with skill and his soft, clear voice seemed to mingle with the fiercely bright embers that spiralled up from the flames, stilling the minds of his audience and unlocking memories of places far away and long ago. Eperitus thought again of Astynome, then of Iphigenia, her face suddenly clearer than he had remembered it in years. Inexplicably, his thoughts turned to Palamedes and the one mystery that remained to be explained. Why was he betraying his countrymen?
A hand fell on his shoulder, startling him. He turned to see Odysseus with his finger across his lips, gesturing for him to follow. Though it was mostly covered by the king’s double-cloak, Eperitus saw he held a large box under his arm.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked, leaving the circle of light, warmth and memory. ‘No one’s seen you all day.’
‘I’ve been in my hut, thinking,’ Odysseus answered.
‘And have you come up with anything?’
Odysseus could not prevent a self-satisfied smile. ‘We’re going to Palamedes’s tent. No, not to confront him – he’s the last man I’d expect to confess anything. At least not freely.’
‘Then what?’
‘You’ll see.’
They walked between the haphazard rows of tents until they reached the place where the Nauplians were concentrated. As with every other part of the camp, the soldiers here were gathered around blazing fires that chugged great columns of spark-filled smoke into the night sky. The different conversations combined into a low buzz as they swapped stories and washed their evening meals down with wine, no one seeming to notice the cloaked figures walking among them. Eventually, the two Ithacans came to Palamedes’s tent. Odysseus drew his hood over his head and sat cross-legged at the back of the nearest fire, where two dozen men were talking animatedly in strongly accented Greek.
‘What are we doing?’ Eperitus whispered, sitting next to Odysseus and looking around himself uncertainly.
‘Waiting for Palamedes, of course,’ Odysseus answered, giving a small flick of his head in the direction of the large tent close by. A light was shining within and the blurred outline of a man could be seen against the sailcloth walls as he moved around the interior.
‘We’re going to follow him again?’
Odysseus placed his fingers against his lips, then turned his face towards the fire and laughed quietly at some comment he had heard. Eperitus, not for the first time annoyed by his friend’s ability to keep his own counsel, crossed his arms and stared at the flames, wondering what was in the box in Odysseus’s lap. After what felt like a very long time, during which the gods seemed to have drawn a convenient veil over the presence of the two Ithacans, the entrance to Palamedes’s tent was pulled aside and the traitor stepped out. Odysseus’s face remained fixed on the fire, but Eperitus could not resist turning slightly to watch Palamedes slip quietly into the night.
He tugged at Odysseus’s cloak. ‘Come on. He’s heading up to the edge of the camp.’
‘Good. Let him go,’ Odysseus replied.
He waited a while longer, increasing Eperitus’s sense of consternation, then turned his head discreetly and eyed the large tent. The lights within had been extinguished, leaving only the dull glow of the hearth, the grey smoke from which was trailing up out of a vent in the top of the canvas. Odysseus took the box in his hands, glanced briefly at the Nauplians around the campfire, then stood and moved to the entrance of the tent. Eperitus followed.
‘You can’t go in,’ he hissed. ‘What if there are slaves?’
‘Palamedes has never owned slaves,’ Odysseus replied, pulling aside the entrance flap and peering into the half-light within. ‘He doesn’t think it right. Now, stay here and warn me if anyone comes.’
Eperitus grabbed the king’s shoulder. ‘What are you looking for, Odysseus? Surely you don’t expect to find anything in there.’
‘Everything depends on evidence, Eperitus,’ he said with a smile. ‘Everything.’
He ducked into the tent and was gone. Eperitus crouched down before the entrance and lowered his hood over his face, watching the nearest campfires intently. The men continued to chatter and laugh, becoming steadily drunker as they pulled at the necks of the wineskins they were sharing. Behind him, Eperitus could hear the small sounds of items being moved about, followed by what seemed like a scratching noise. But as Odysseus showed no signs of finishing his search and time dragged on, he grew more and more tense. Then the thing that he was dreading happened. A man rose from the nearest campfire, swayed slightly, then trudged in a direct line towards Palamedes’s tent. Eperitus snatched up the flap and prepared to whisper an urgent warning, just as the man came to a halt and hoisted up his tunic. He staggered a few more steps to the corner of the tent and began to urinate. The arc of water spattered noisily over the canvas and on to the hard earth, changing direction several times as the man leaned unsteadily from left to right. Eventually, the last drops fell on his sandals and – without a single glance at the crouching figure of Eperitus – he swung round and returned to his comrades.
A moment later Odysseus emerged.
‘I thought he’d never finish,’ he whispered.
‘Did you find anything?’ Eperitus asked as they skulked away from the tent.
‘Not a thing,’ Odysseus replied, sounding quite pleased about the fact.
It was then that Eperitus noticed the box had gone.
‘Odysseus!’ he exclaimed. ‘The box – you’ve left it behind.’
‘Box?’ Odysseus said. ‘What box?’
‘The box you brought with you.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Odysseus said, shrugging his shoulders.
And it was then that Eperitus noticed the dirt under Odys-seus’s fingernails.
The next day’s training was long and arduous with little to show for the effort Eperitus and the other veterans had invested in the replacements. For all the shouting and bullying of their instructors – kindness had no place in the training of warriors – the same men made the same mistakes again and again and many a beating was doled out to the worst handful. These were the ones who would be killed very early on or, if they were fortunate, might discover a latent fighting instinct that could just make warriors of them. Even Odysseus’s presence as he observed them from the top of a sand bank did little to encourage their performance. But as the westering sun turned the sky indigo and edged the thin clouds with gold, the king could tell there were some who were showing promise and many more for whom there was hope. These men would benefit from the days of training they had received, and would stand a good chance of surviving their first battle.
Later that night, he left his hut and walked to the place where the Trojan prisoners were kept. Their numbers had dwindled over the winter as the wealthier ones had been ransomed back to their families and many more had been sold to foreign slave traders. The few who remained were poor and either too weak or too rebellious to become slaves. Odysseus picked a dark-skinned man with black curly hair and a hooked nose whom he knew as a trouble causer and had him released into his custody. They walked to Eperitus’s hut and, flinging aside the flap, walked in.
‘Odysseus?’ Eperitus said, jumping from his bed in surprise. ‘Is something wrong? Who’s this?’
‘A Phrygian we captured last year,’ Odysseus answered. ‘All he’s ever done is eat our rations, so I’ve found another use for him.’
‘What do you want with me?’ the Trojan asked in good Greek, shrinking away from the Ithacan king, wh
ose sword was pressed against his kidneys. ‘I am a prisoner and should be respected as such.’
‘You will be, my friend,’ Odysseus reassured him, patting his shoulder. ‘In fact, I’ve decided to let you go. Eperitus and I are going to take you beyond the fringe of the camp and set you free.’
‘Free?’ said Eperitus. ‘Why in the names of the gods would we want to do that?’
‘Yes, what reason could you have for releasing me?’ the prisoner asked.
‘I need you to take a message to King Priam.’
Eperitus narrowed his eyes. ‘Priam? That would be treason, Odysseus, and you know it. And what could you possibly have to say to Priam?’
‘You know I’m no traitor, Eperitus,’ he answered. ‘But I need your help, so you’ll just have to trust me.’
He gave the prisoner a clay tablet and told him to tuck it into the folds of his tunic. Then, once Eperitus had dressed and slung his sword and scabbard under his arm, the three men left the hut and made their way up the slope to the top of the ridge. The Trojan led the way, his face suddenly bright with hope, followed by Odysseus and Eperitus. Before they reached the edge of the camp, Odysseus stopped them and ordered Eperitus and the prisoner to change cloaks.
‘Eperitus, I want you to cross the ditch further up and wait for me among the trees where we spoke to Calchas. Diocles still has the evening watch, so I’ll keep him distracted while you make your way over. And you,’ he added, placing a large hand on the Phrygian’s shoulder, ‘pull your hood down over your face and stay behind me. Don’t speak, even if spoken to. Do you understand?’
The Phrygian nodded uncertainly and glanced at Eperitus. Eperitus ignored him and set off up the slope towards the earthen ramparts that edged the ditch. Odysseus watched his friend pull himself up the rampart and cross its broad parapet on his stomach, finally disappearing into the ditch beyond. Then, aware that he could be executed if he was caught escorting a prisoner from the camp carrying a message to Priam, Odysseus gave the Phrygian a warning look and approached the guards on the causeway. There were three of them, cloaked against the cold night air and carrying shields and spears.
‘Diocles,’ he called. ‘Still on watch?’
‘Someone has to do it,’ the Spartan grumbled. ‘Not planning to follow Palamedes again, are you? He passed through a while ago, if you are.’
Odysseus shook his head and indicated the Phrygian with his thumb.
‘Not tonight. One of my lads has been having dreams about his father. Worried he’s dead, so I said I’d take him to Calchas to see if he could interpret the dreams. He used to be good at that.’
‘Used to be, maybe,’ Diocles said. ‘Not any more, though, if you ask me. Not with his wine-addled brain. No harm in trying, I suppose.’
He waved the other guards aside and Odysseus crossed, followed closely by the Phrygian. They moved to the cover of the trees and moments later were met by Eperitus.
‘Lead us to the ravine,’ Odysseus ordered. ‘To the place where the patrols usually cross on their way back. And keep quiet – Calchas will be asleep near here and Diocles says Palamedes is around again. The last thing I want is for either of them to notice us.’
The ravine was a short march to the south-east of the camp, where rainwater from the eastern mountains had cut a path down to the sea. They found it with ease in the faint moonlight. It opened up as a rocky shelf before their feet, with a steep drop into a dried-up river bed. A little to their right, the shelf fell away and was replaced by a rubble-strewn slope that led down to a bulge in the gully below. In the winter when the river was full this was one of the few places where it could be forded with ease, but all that could be heard now as they stood in the semi-darkness was a slow trickle of water in the shadows below.
Odysseus looked down at the slope and felt a heaviness in his heart. He did not like what he was about to do. Even for a man who was renowned for his sly cunning, it was an act without honour that left him cold. But the alternative was to allow Palamedes to continue his treachery and prolong the war, something that was even more unpalatable with the nobility testing his authority at home and the threat that might bring to his family. With his heart pounding against his ribcage, he turned to the Phrygian.
‘You still have the letter?’
The Phrygian patted his tunic. ‘Is this where I leave you, my lords?’
Odysseus nodded and pointed to the nearby slope. ‘Cross the ravine there and head north-east to avoid the patrols. After a while you’ll find another ford by an abandoned farmhouse. Cross back over there and make your way north to Troy. I assume Trojans know how to read the stars?’
The prisoner dismissed the question with a smile. ‘Your letter will be delivered before the rising of the sun. Whatever you want with King Priam, I pray the gods will honour you for releasing me.’
With that, he turned his back and took two steps towards the break in the rock shelf. Then with a speed that belied his physique, Odysseus stepped after him, threw his arm around the man’s neck and twisted sharply. There was a small snap and the man’s body went limp, held up only by Odysseus’s muscular arm.
‘Gods!’ Eperitus exclaimed, stepping back in shock. ‘You’ve killed him.’
‘Of course I have,’ Odysseus replied sternly, slipping his arms under the dead man’s armpits. ‘Now, take his feet.’
Eperitus hesitated, still stunned by the unexpected murder of the Trojan prisoner, but a glance at the fierce look in Odysseus’s eyes forced him to obey.
‘I don’t understand,’ he grunted as they carried the body to the ravine and threw it over the edge. ‘What’s this all about? Why did you have to kill him?’
‘I didn’t. He fell and broke his neck. And by morning the whole Greek army is going to be baying for Palamedes’s blood.’
Chapter Twelve
TRAITOR’S GOLD
Palamedes awoke to the sound of barked commands and the stamp of approaching feet. He swung his legs out of bed and pulled on his tunic. As he found his sandals and pulled them on he heard the sound of voices raised in challenge followed by a scuffle. A man cried out. Then the flap of the tent was jerked aside and Agamemnon walked in, followed by Menelaus, Nestor and Odysseus. Eperitus was the last to enter and dropped the flap shut behind him.
‘My lords,’ Palamedes said uncertainly, bowing low before them.
Agamemnon said nothing. He was a tall, imposing figure dressed in a pure white tunic and a blood-red cloak, fastened at the left shoulder by a golden brooch of wonderful craftsmanship. He threw the cloak back to reveal an ornately decorated breastplate, the gift of King Cinyras of Cyprus, which he wore at all times for fear of an assassin’s knife. Its different bands of gold, tin and blue enamel shone in the filtered sunlight, and the finely worked snakes that crawled upward on either side glittered as if they were moving.
Despite his rich garb, Agamemnon’s long brown hair and auburn beard were shot through with grey and his fine features had lost their youthful arrogance and self-confidence. The eyes were dark-rimmed, as if sleep was a luxury that his great wealth and power could no longer command. He stood with his hands locked behind the small of his back, staring at Palamedes in forbidding silence, his cold blue eyes revealing nothing of what he was thinking.
Menelaus stood beside him, his forehead and thick eyebrows puckered together in an angry frown. With his bear-like physique, thinning hair and careworn face he bore little resemblance to his older brother, and it was clear from the way he was clenching and unclenching his fists that he did not share Agamemnon’s capacity for calm detachment.
‘The letter, Nestor,’ he said after a few more moments of silence. ‘Show him the damned letter.’
Nestor was the oldest of the four kings, a greybeard whose battered face spoke of a lifetime of hardship and battle. He stepped forward and pulled something from inside his purple cloak and tossed it on to the furs at Palamedes’s feet. Palamedes frowned in confusion, then stooped to pick up the tablet.
&nb
sp; ‘Read it,’ Agamemnon commanded.
Palamedes glanced at the King of Men, then lowered his eyes to scan the marked clay.
‘What is this?’ he asked, looking back up at Agamemnon with an incredulous frown.
‘Read it aloud,’ Agamemnon ordered.
‘But it’s ridiculous.’
‘Read it!’
Palamedes blinked in surprise and fear. He glanced at Odysseus, whose face was passive and unreadable, then looked back down at the letter.
‘To Priam, son of Laomedon, king of Troy. Greetings! Your generous offer of gold is gratefully received. The sacking of Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe was regrettable, but as ever, I remain in Agamemnon’s closest confidence and will send you details of his battle plans for the rest of the year as soon as I can. Your faithful servant, Palamedes.’
He read the letter haltingly, almost unable to say aloud the words that bore his name, then shook his head and looked at Agamemnon.
‘But this is a nonsense, my lord,’ he protested. ‘By all the gods of Olympus, I swear to you I did not write this.’
‘The letter was found on the body of a Trojan spy,’ Nestor informed him. ‘Not far from the boundary of our camp, where he had fallen in the dark and broken his neck. It bears your name, Palamedes. What do you say in your defence?’
‘It’s obviously a forgery.’
‘How long have you been in Priam’s pay?’ Menelaus demanded, suddenly stepping forward and grabbing Palamedes’s tunic. ‘How long have you been betraying our strategies to him? Tell me!’
‘Let go of him, Menelaus!’ Agamemnon commanded. ‘If he’s a traitor, I want him to confess freely, not have it beaten out of him. Now tell me the truth, Palamedes: have you been betraying us to the Trojans?’
Palamedes ran forward and fell at Agamemnon’s feet, throwing his arms around his knees.
‘I swear the letter has nothing to do with me. I would never betray you for gold, my lord. If you don’t believe me, search my tent. This is an elaborate trick thought up by Odysseus to destroy me, I know it.’