by Glyn Iliffe
Odysseus was already running towards the lines of Ithacans.
‘Eperitus!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Eperitus, come on!’
‘I have to warn Agamemnon,’ Eperitus shouted back. ‘He’ll be surrounded and killed unless someone helps him.’
Odysseus looked across, saw the danger and nodded. As he watched him join the other Ithacans, Eperitus suffered a pang of doubt. Was he right to abandon his own king to the threat of a cavalry charge, all for the sake of the reviled Agamemnon and an oath that he’d been tricked into taking? Then he saw that Diomedes had also realized what was happening, and he was reassured by the sight of him forming his doughty Argives up next to the Ithacans. Whatever happened now would be the will of the gods, he told himself, before throwing his shield across his back and sprinting towards Agamemnon.
By now, the small band of Mycenaeans had spotted the peril they were in and had formed a circle about their king. The Trojan cavalry swept around them, throwing their heavy spears at the knot of men. Many of the bronze points were turned aside or stopped by the broad leather shields, but some found flesh and spilled men backwards, forcing the survivors to draw closer in on themselves. A few hurled spears back at the lightly armoured horsemen, bringing several down from their mounts to crash into the long grass below.
While the Trojans concentrated on wearing down the Mycenaeans, Eperitus ran up unnoticed and plunged the point of his spear into a passing rider’s ribcage, piercing his heart and killing him instantly. As he fell, Eperitus seized the reins and hauled himself on to the horse’s back. He slid his sword from its scabbard, kicked his heels into the animal’s flanks and sent it dashing towards the Mycenaeans. As he did so, another Trojan cavalryman turned his mount skilfully and aimed a spear at Eperitus’s head. It flew over his shoulder, only a hand’s breadth from piercing his eye. A moment later Eperitus charged down on his assailant and swung his blade into the man’s neck, tumbling his dead body to the ground.
He raced on, seeing the last of the Mycenaeans now surrounded by cavalrymen, their swords rising and falling as they hacked the Greeks to death. For a moment he forgot whose life he was trying to save and felt a pang of fear that he was too late, and then Agamemnon stumbled out from the knot of horsemen, followed by Talthybius, his herald. Both men were armed with sword and shield and each felled a Trojan before running as fast as they could in the direction of the distant walls. Three horsemen broke free from the melee in which the last of Agamemnon’s bodyguard were giving their lives so their king could escape, but did not see Eperitus as they chased after the fleeing Mycenaeans. He charged in from their left and sank his sword into one man’s spine, before hacking the blade with a backward blow across a second’s face. The third dropped his spear – useless at such a close range – and pulled out his sword, only to have his arm severed below the elbow by another swing of Eperitus’s blade.
As the man fell to the ground, shrieking with pain, Eperitus saw a chariot cut across the path of Agamemnon and Talthybius and draw to a halt. Whether they knew they were facing the leader of the Greek army, or whether they had simply seen his armour and decided to take it for themselves, the two Trojans jumped down from the car and ran at Agamemnon. Both were tall and heavily built, alike enough to be brothers. The first rammed his shield into Talthybius’s face, swatting him aside like one of the many mosquitoes that haunted the plains of Ilium. The second leapt at Agamemnon with his spear, but the king twisted aside with surprising agility and punched the point of his own weapon into his attacker’s throat. The man dropped with nothing more than a grunt, but as Agamemnon turned, the second Trojan was already upon him, piercing his forearm with the tip of his spear. The king fell back with a shout of pain and surprise, letting his sword fall from his fingertips. Taking his spear in both hands, the Trojan raised it high above the plume of his helmet to deliver the killing blow. In the same instant, Eperitus’s blade swept his head from his shoulders. The torso fell forward and gushed blood over the King of Men, who kicked it aside and got to his feet, still clutching at his wounded arm.
‘Eperitus!’ he exclaimed, wide-eyed. ‘Where did you come from?’
Eperitus ignored the question and dismounted. He found Talthybius, dazed and with a bloody nose, and helped him back to his feet; then he tore a strip of cloth from a dead man’s cloak and bound it around Agamemnon’s wounded forearm. Leading the two men to the abandoned chariot, he handed Talthybius the reins and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Take Agamemnon back to the camp as quickly as you can. Machaon or Podaleirius can tend to his arm there. I must go and find Odysseus.’
‘Wait!’ Agamemnon ordered. He stood in the chariot and looked around at the chaos of battle: bodies lay everywhere, their nationalities indistinguishable; knots of Greeks struggled to return to their comrades, where, by a miracle, the gap left in the line had been plugged and the Trojan cavalry were still being held at bay. But it was only a matter of time before the Trojan reserve – which Eperitus had seen marching up out of the defile where they had lain hidden – arrived and threw their weight into the fighting. ‘I don’t understand, Eperitus. We had them running before us . . .’
‘It was a trap, my lord,’ Eperitus explained, trying to hide the sneer from his voice. ‘Hector sent Dolon to feed us false information.’
‘But why?’ Talthybius asked.
‘To draw us out from the safety of the walls and massacre us on the plain,’ Eperitus answered. ‘And they may yet succeed. Now, go.’
He slapped the hindquarters of the nearest horse and, with a snap of the reins and a shout from Talthybius, the chariot set off at a dash towards the Greek lines. Eperitus ran back to his captured mount and leapt lightly on to its back. The added height enabled him to take in the battlefield at a glance, and to his horror he saw the Ithacans and Argives being attacked by a mass of Trojan cavalry. He tried to spot Odysseus amongst the struggling men but could not, and with a sudden chill sensed that the king was in mortal danger.
‘EPERITUS!’ boomed a familiar voice. ‘EPERITUS!’
He pulled on the reins and turned the horse to face Ajax, who was running towards him with great strides. Menelaus was at his heels and both men looked concerned.
‘Why aren’t you with Odysseus?’ Menelaus demanded, his voice accusing.
‘I left him to save your brother’s life,’ Eperitus retorted. ‘And now I’m going back to find him. You should get back to the safety of the lines too, my lords. The Trojan reserve will be upon us at any moment.’
He indicated the mass of men marching towards them across the plain. The two kings looked and their eyes widened briefly.
‘We’ve just seen Diomedes being driven back to the ships by Sthenelaus,’ Ajax said, tearing his eyes away from the force that would certainly spell doom for the Greeks. ‘He told us Odysseus needed help.’
‘He’d been shot in the foot by Paris,’ Menelaus added, seeing the look on Eperitus’s face at the news Diomedes had abandoned his friend. ‘That’s why we’re here.’
‘Come on, then,’ Eperitus said, sliding back down from the horse and pulling his shield on to his arm.
The three men ran to where the Trojan cavalry were almost overwhelming the beleaguered armies of Ithaca and Argos, falling on the horsemen from behind and cutting a swathe through the tightly packed mass. Ajax felled several riders with his spear, and when the weapon stuck fast in the body of one of his victims he used his height and strength to punch men from the backs of their mounts instead, even knocking horses to the ground in his battle rage. Menelaus, too, was lost in a frenzy of killing, desperate to find the elusive Paris and finish their duel of four days before. But Eperitus was a match for both men. The strong sense that Odysseus was in danger filled him with urgency. As the horsemen struggled to turn about in the dense throng and face their attackers their light armour was no match for the sharp bronze of Eperitus’s spear. One man after another dropped to the ground before the terrible onslaught of the three Greeks.
Panic spread through the Trojan ranks and soon they were scattering before them like sheep before wolves. Then Eperitus saw Odysseus, standing before a line of Ithacan spearmen, his shield stuck with arrows and his bloody sword in his hand. Omeros was on the ground behind him, struggling to pull himself to safety across a carpet of dead men as his king defended him from a mounted Trojan.
The rider’s scaled armour was expensive and marked him as a chieftain. Oblivious to the terror that was forcing his countrymen to flee, he reared his horse so that its hooves flailed in the air above Odysseus’s head. Odysseus threw his shield up and in the same moment his opponent pushed down with his long spear, piercing Odysseus’s side and toppling him backwards across the struggling form of Omeros. Eperitus gave a shout and sprang forward, followed by Ajax and Menelaus. The Trojan turned, the look of triumph dropping from his face as Eperitus’s spear pushed up into his armpit, almost severing the limb at the shoulder. He let out a cry of pain, but somehow managed to turn his horse with one arm and ride away. The Trojan cavalry followed, streaming back across the plain in the wake of their captain.
Chapter Twenty-Six
IN AGAMEMNON’S TENT
Eperitus knelt beside Odysseus and cupped his hand beneath the back of his head. Antiphus and Eurybates appeared and pulled Omeros free, while casting anxious glances at their king’s pale face and the blood seeping out from his right side.
‘Odysseus!’ Eperitus urged. Odysseus’s familiar green eyes stared back at him blankly. ‘Say something, Odysseus.’
Odysseus blinked with pain and gave a groan. ‘As long as you don’t want me to sing.’
Eperitus’s face broke into a grin. He helped Odysseus to sit up, while Ajax tore strips from a woollen cloak and pressed them against the wound.
‘It’s not fatal,’ he said, though his stern tone failed to completely hide his relief. ‘Nothing vital’s been hit; just a flesh wound with a lot of blood loss. You’ll live to fight another day, my old friend, though not this day. I’ll take you back to the ships in my chariot.’
Odysseus shook his head. ‘Let Eperitus take me; you and Menelaus are needed here. The Trojans will be on us any moment and it’s up to you to organize a fighting retreat. Get the army back to the walls.’
‘And concede defeat again?’ Menelaus spat. ‘Not while Paris is on the battlefield.’
‘Odysseus is right,’ Ajax countered, rising to his feet and looking to where the Trojan reserves had come within spear range. Hector was at their head with Paris at his side, both men encouraging the ranks of fresh warriors with loud war cries. ‘We have to salvage the army or face ruin.’
As he spoke, Antiphus arrived with a chariot. Eurybates lifted the unconscious Omeros into the car, while Eperitus followed with Odysseus leaning heavily on his shoulder. Despite his weakness, the king stood and clutched the rail for support, so that as many of his men as possible could see he was able to stand. Then Eperitus took the reins and, with a shout, sent the horses racing back towards the walls, the wheels bouncing over the countless bodies that littered the ground. Odysseus threw a glance over his shoulder as the hordes of Trojans threw their spears and charged.
‘They’ll make it back,’ Eperitus reassured him. ‘It’s a long time since the Ithacans were simple fishermen and farmers.’
‘I have confidence in them,’ Odysseus answered, weakly. ‘And Hector and Paris will find their match in Ajax and Menelaus. But you must return as soon as you can and take charge of the Ithacans, at least until my wound has been tended to.’
Eperitus nodded. He slapped the reins across the horses’ backs and fixed his gaze grimly on the tall gates that were looming up ahead of them.
Achilles stood in the prow of his beached ship, looking beyond the sea of tents to the walls at the top of the slope. All around him the Myrmidons were busy preparing their galleys to leave, some walking up and down springy gangplanks with loads on their shoulders while others raised masts or readied sails and rigging for the long journey home. Patroclus and Peisandros directed their movements reluctantly and without haste, hoping that the prince would yet change his mind. And as they watched him – his gaze focused intently on the walls as if his eyes could pierce the bricks and wood to see the battle raging beyond – it seemed as if at any moment he would call for his armour and summon the men to arms. But still he remained there as if he were carved from stone, listening motionless to the distant sounds of battle and watching the streams of wounded come limping through the gates to choke the tents with their broken bodies and fill the whole camp with their cries.
‘Patroclus!’ he shouted, suddenly. ‘Patroclus!’
Patroclus threw a glance at Peisandros, then dashed up the nearest gangplank, knocking one of the Myrmidons and his load on to the sand below.
‘My lord?’ he asked.
‘Another chariot has just come through the gates. Run and find out who it is, and ask them what’s happening on the plain. I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on.’
Patroclus hesitated, hoping that Achilles might also send for his armour, but when the prince returned to his impassive stance he gave a short bow and ran back down to the beach.
‘Are we fighting?’ Peisandros asked urgently as he passed.
Patroclus shook his head, then sprinted across the sand towards the centre of the camp, where Agamemnon’s tent stood like a white Olympus among the smaller peaks of its neighbours. As he passed the wounded from the battle they called out to him, stretching out their hands for help; but when they saw he was a Myrmidon their cries of anguish became insults and shouts of anger. Even the dying looked up at him with disdain or turned away, preferring to suffer than implore the aid of one of Achilles’s men. But Patroclus did not begrudge them their bitterness. He was used to being treated with scorn – hated as he was for his arrogant nature – and he would have felt the same in their place. There was not a man in the whole Greek army – not on the whole face of the earth – that Patroclus did not admire or love as much as he did Achilles, but even he knew that the prince’s pride had gone too far this time. Pride was the prerogative of great men, but when it came at the expense of honour it was a perversion. He averted his eyes from the wounded and ran on.
A line of chariots waited outside the great tent of Agamemnon, where the first man Patroclus saw was Eperitus. He had always looked down on Odysseus’s captain, a low-born noble like himself, but things had changed in the past few days and he found his old conceit waning rapidly.
‘Have you come to tell us your master has decided to fight?’ the Ithacan asked, unlooping two skins of water from the rail of a chariot.
Patroclus shook his head. ‘He remains the prisoner of his stubborn honour.’
‘Honour?’ Eperitus snorted, turning and walking to the mouth of the tent. ‘That’s not honour.’
Patroclus followed him. ‘I agree with you, Eperitus. And I think he does too. It’s destroying him to wait by his ship and do nothing while his comrades fight and die on the plain.’
‘Then why has he sent you here, assuming he has?’
‘He wants to know who are the wounded men he’s watched being brought back from the battle.’
‘Then come inside and see for yourself,’ Eperitus replied, indicating the tent with his open hand.
Patroclus led the way into Agamemnon’s headquarters. The sun still streamed in through the heavy canvas, but the familiar sense of order and majesty that had once marked the King of Men’s seat of power was gone. The benches where the council sat had been dragged aside without ceremony to make way for a dozen wounded men, who lay on mattresses or were sitting in fur-draped chairs in the centre of the tent. They were waited on by slaves with bowls of steaming water and lengths of bloodstained cloth, which they used to stem the bleeding and clean the wounds. The air was close and smelled strongly of blood and pungent herbs. Though the groans were more muted than out among the rest of the sprawling camp, the shock for Patroclus lay not in the condition of the wounded men but in
their identities. At the far end of the tent was Agamemnon himself, seated gloomily in his golden throne as fresh bandages were wrapped around his forearm by a female slave. On a mattress at the centre of the tent was the great Diomedes, who still wore his armour but for the greave on his left leg, which had been removed to allow Sthenelaus to bathe the arrow hole in his foot; the shaft and the broken head of the missile lay beside him. Then there was Machaon, the healer, who sat on a chair while Nestor dabbed gingerly at the wound in his shoulder. Every now and then he would bark out instructions to the dozens of slaves tending to the injured, before slumping back into his chair, exhausted.
‘Paris shot him,’ Eperitus said, watching Patroclus’s gaze. ‘He shot Diomedes, too, and Eurypylus over there.’
He pointed to one of the kings from Thessaly, a sandy-haired man who lay on a mattress, biting on to a folded leather belt as a soldier pulled an arrow from his thigh.
‘He’s been making a nuisance of himself with that bow and arrow,’ Odysseus commented, rising to his feet from a corner of the tent and taking Patroclus by the hand. His armour had been removed and his midriff swathed in bandages; a pink stain on his left side, below the ribs, showed where he had been stabbed. ‘After his scrap with Menelaus, I think Helen must have persuaded him to stay out of the real fighting and rely on his archery instead.’
‘I can hardly believe it,’ Patroclus stuttered. ‘So many of you wounded.’
‘There are more still on the battlefield, fighting to save what’s left of the army,’ Eperitus said. ‘Both the Ajaxes, Menelaus, Idomeneus, Teucer, Antilochus . . .’