by Glyn Iliffe
‘To name only the best, but even they won’t last indefinitely against Hector,’ Odysseus added. ‘He’s like a lion out there, and he has the support of Paris, Sarpedon, Aeneas and Apheidas. There’s only one hope left now for the Greeks.’
‘And he remains implacable,’ said Patroclus.
‘But have you spoken with him, as I asked you to?’
‘He won’t listen. Even now, while the Greeks are streaming from the field and crying out in their suffering, he’s done nothing more than send me here to take a tally of the wounded. I’ve appealed to him in every way I can, Odysseus, but now I’m starting to believe nothing will ever move him to fight again. All he wants to do is go back to Scyros for his wife and son, then return to Phthia. Nobody else matters to him any more, not even the men he has fought alongside all these years.’
Odysseus turned away and Eperitus caught a glimmer of something in his eye – that familiar look that came across him when he was struck by an idea.
‘Nobody, you say?’ he mused. ‘Then you underestimate how much he cares about you, Patroclus. But enough of that. If Achilles won’t be drawn into battle, it’s up to you to act on the advice your father gave you before you left Phthia. Have you forgotten that Menoetius told you to be an example to Achilles, whose pride he knew would cause him trouble?’
Patroclus snorted his derision, but Odysseus placed his great hands on the Myrmidon’s arms.
‘Why don’t you lead the Myrmidons into battle? If you can convince Achilles to lend you his armour and visored helmet then the Trojans will think he’s returned to the fight. It’d strike terror into their hearts; you’d send them fleeing back to the city and be responsible for saving the army! Better still, a man like you could face Hector and win – who would dare to call you a lesser noble then?’
Patroclus stared at Odysseus for a long moment, then shrugged off his hands and turned to Eurypylus, who was grunting with pain as the arrow was torn from his thigh and his blood began to pump out over the rich furs.
‘He’ll never agree to it, Odysseus,’ Patroclus insisted, before snatching some bandages from a slave and going to help the struggling Thessalian.
Odysseus turned to Eperitus with a knowing smile on his lips.
‘I’ll talk to him again,’ he said quietly, taking the skins of water Eperitus had brought. ‘You should go back to the plain and take charge of the Ithacans. The sound of battle’s much closer now and you’ll do more good up there than you can here.’
‘Let me go too, my lord.’ Omeros emerged from the shadows at the side of the tent, the wound on his forehead freshly bandaged. ‘I’m no use here and I want to go and fight.’
Eperitus looked at Odysseus, who nodded; then with Omeros following at his heels he left the tent and walked out into the bright sunshine. As they climbed the slope to the walls, Eperitus looked back and saw the calm waters of the bay with the sun gleaming on the wave caps as they rolled in towards the beach. All along the sandy curve of the great cove the Greek ships were drawn up out of the water, like a vast and peaceful colony of seals basking in the midday warmth. Most had barely touched the water for the whole decade of the war and their silent, empty timbers were as dry as tinder. One lick of flame to each would see them burn. Eperitus imagined the beach awash with Trojans, tossing torches into the hulls so that they blazed like a line of funeral pyres, the wind fanning the flames and spreading them from ship to ship.
‘May the gods forbid they ever get that far,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Sir?’
‘Nothing, Omeros,’ he replied, then, looking up to the walls, he saw that the last of the Greeks had escaped the battlefield and were thronging the top of the slope. ‘Come on – let’s see who’s left of the Ithacans.’
They set off at a run, following the well-trodden paths to the top and kicking up sprays of dust from the ground. Soon they had joined the host of weary soldiers on the ridge, whose tired, dispirited eyes stared out from grime- and blood-encrusted faces as their commanders tried to shepherd them into some sort of order. Streams of wounded were being helped down to the ships and many more must have lain dead on the plain. But the gods had been merciful: thousands upon thousands had escaped the battlefield and now packed the narrow crescent of ground that topped the ridge above the camp. Hundreds more manned the walls above them and were hurling rocks or firing arrows into the invisible attackers beyond, whose mingled cries of pain, rage and determination could be heard roaring like a storm-wracked sea. Some of the men on the walls fell back as black-feathered Trojan arrows found their mark, but Eperitus could see the mighty figure of Great Ajax exhorting the defenders to hold and fight, while his half-brother, Teucer, picked out targets with his bow from behind the cover of Ajax’s tall shield. On the other side of him was Menestheus, the Athenian king, hurling spear after spear into the seething mass of men below.
Suddenly there was a loud yelling and Eperitus saw the tops of ladders – clearly brought up from Troy during the night – lodging against the battlements. Moments later the walls were beset with Lycian spearmen, clambering over the parapets with Sarpedon at their head and bringing havoc to the defenders. As the Greeks on the ridge behind looked up in horror, Eperitus balanced a spear in his right hand, took aim, and sent a Lycian chieftain spinning from the battlements into the spike-filled ditch beyond. Then an enormous boom shook the air and every eye turned to the gates, where trails of dust were still falling from the timbers as they quivered beneath the blow that had hit them. Another boom followed, smashing the gates from their hinges and sending them whirling to the ground. Through the haze that followed their destruction a figure emerged. Hector tossed aside the large boulder he had used to break down the gates, then, with a metallic scrape, drew his long sword from its sheath and with a loud cry led the Trojans into the Greek camp.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
PEACE OFFERINGS
The Trojans poured through the broken gates with Hector at their head. He crashed into the shocked Greeks and cut a swathe through their packed ranks, wielding his sword to left and right with murderous effect. On either side, men were leaping from the walls and fleeing from Sarpedon and his victorious Lycians, many abandoning their weapons in panic as they ran. The hideous discord of bronze upon bronze broke out once more, deafening men as they struggled face-to-face with their enemies, driven by anger, hatred or fear as they stabbed and hacked at one another. Clouds of dust rose up from beneath their feet to dry throats and sting eyes, and very soon every man was locked in a personal battle for survival.
‘Stay close to me,’ Eperitus instructed, glancing briefly at Omeros before dashing across to join the battle for the gates.
Here the fighting was hardest as the Greek line bent back before Hector’s onslaught. No quarter was given by either side as men already exhausted by their efforts fell upon each other with renewed vigour, killing and being killed in droves. While the spearmen struggled to contain the swarming enemy, the lightly armed skirmishers had fallen back and were firing at short range into the mass of Trojans. But their efforts were to no avail: the Trojans had tasted victory and were fighting with a drunken recklessness, slaughtering the Greeks and pushing them inexorably back down the slope before them. Only the hard-won experience of the veteran warriors and the dogged determination of each man not to betray his comrades kept the Greeks from full flight. Eperitus and Omeros fell back with them and soon the thousands of struggling men were trampling the outermost tents and expended fires of the once-unassailable Greek camp, the battle now stretching diagonally from the farthest point of the bay in the north to the top of the ridge in the east.
Eperitus ducked instinctively as a spear passed over his head and buried itself in the chest of the man behind him. Startled, he saw Hector away to his right, taking another spear from one of his soldiers. This time he did not cast the weapon, but charged into the attack. Eperitus spared a moment to push Omeros back, then raised his defences to meet the full force of Hector’s assault.
Their shields clashed with an arm-numbing impact that sent Eperitus stumbling backwards. He steadied himself just in time to avoid the ensuing thrust of Hector’s spear, then brought his sword down against the Trojan’s shield. Hector swatted the blow aside with contempt and lunged forward again. This time the point penetrated the thick leather of Eperitus’s shield, just missing his shoulder. Eperitus twisted the heavy shield aside and snapped the socketed head away from the shaft, then rushed forward and swung his blade at Hector’s scowling face. The Trojan leapt back with the agility of a man half his size, throwing the shaft of the broken spear aside and drawing his sword with a menacing, metallic scrape.
Eperitus braced himself, but the expected attack did not come. Instead, Hector paused and narrowed his eyes against the dust their battle had raised.
‘Odysseus’s squire,’ he said at last, recognizing the blood- and dirt-stained figure before him. He stepped back and lowered his weapon slightly.
‘His friend,’ Eperitus corrected.
‘Then Odysseus is blessed in his friendships – you’re a good fighter. I would have been honoured to strip your armour from your corpse and add it to my growing collection.’
‘Would have? Then you concede I am the better warrior?’
Hector smiled. ‘No, but I won’t fight you. You’re still looking for Apheidas, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ Eperitus answered.
‘Then perhaps you’ll be glad to know he’s looking for you, too – and I have no intention of spoiling his fun.’ Hector backed away and sheathed his sword as one of his soldiers passed him another spear. ‘If you’ve got any sense you’ll beg that loathsome coward, Achilles, to let you sail back to Greece with him: if Apheidas finds you on the battlefield, even the gods won’t be able to help you.’
He said something in his own tongue to the men around him and pointed at Eperitus, then bowed briefly to the Ithacan before slipping back into their ranks. Within a moment the Trojans were attacking again. It was as if Hector had never appeared, except for the noticeable fact that none of the enemy would come near to Eperitus. Whenever he attacked them, they would close their shields like a wall against him, refusing to cross their weapons with his. In return, Eperitus’s sense of honour forbade him to kill men who would not fight.
‘Just think, sir,’ Omeros said, crouching beside him as the maelstrom of battle whirled around them, ‘if all men simply refused to fight, there would be no wars and we could all live happy and peaceful lives.’
‘Then warriors and poets like us would starve,’ Eperitus replied. ‘But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be kept out of the battle; we’ll find another place, where the struggle’s just as desperate and the Trojans haven’t been ordered not to fight me.’
‘Idomeneus and his Cretans are hard pressed on the right flank,’ Omeros said, craning his neck to look eastward, before turning his gaze to the north, ‘and things are even worse on the left. They’re nearly at the ships!’
Eperitus followed his stare, using his keen eyesight to distinguish between the mass of figures at the far end of the bay, even though there were many thousands of them and all were shrouded in dust.
‘Both the Ajaxes are there,’ he announced, ‘and Teucer with them. They’re holding the Trojans back, for now at least. But wait! Hector’s making his way there, and Paris is with him. That’s where we’re needed, Omeros, before they get among the ships and start putting them to the torch. Zeus’s beard, if Achilles doesn’t forget his foolish pride soon we’re going to be destroyed!’
They pulled back from the fighting and set off at a run, through the scattered ranks of skirmishers and the disorderly tents – some of which had been set ablaze by flaming arrows and were sending columns of black smoke into the air – and on to where the struggle was at its fiercest. Arrows and spears fell all around them as they ran, while the ground was choked with countless wounded, groaning with the pain of severed limbs and other ghastly wounds. Then they felt the soft sand beneath their feet and to their left the tall beaks of the galleys were rising up like a leafless forest, the symbolic goal of the Trojan horde as they wrought havoc across the camp.
Suddenly the two Ithacans were in the thick of the battle again. They joined the rear of the throng, where the cowards hung back from the fighting, and quickly pushed their way through to the front, where the mounds of the dead had made a low wall over which the two armies were trying to bring their arms to bear. Here they saw the towering form of Great Ajax, a bastion of destructive fury amongst the fading strength of the Greeks. Teucer was lurking at his side, an almost comical parody of manhood were it not for the arrows that sped with deadly efficiency from his bow, bringing one Trojan down after another. Then there was Little Ajax, standing on the piled corpses with his pet snake about his shoulders and holding the severed head of a man by his black hair, which he tossed into the crowded enemy with a yell of triumph. It landed at the feet of Hector, who kicked it aside contemptuously and, with a shout that rose above the din of war, ordered his army to renew the attack. The air filled with heavy spears and hummed to the sound of hundreds of arrows speeding towards their targets, tearing the life from the flesh of scores of men and dropping their corpses into the dust. Then the Trojans gave a cheer and fell upon the faltering Greeks. It was enough. Even the fearful presence of the Ajaxes could not stop the cracks that now raced through the Greek ranks. First the men at the back scattered, then the rest fell away before the force and fury of the Trojan assault.
Eperitus ran back across the sand towards the beached galleys, where amazingly men were trying to heave the heavy vessels back into the sea, so desperate were they to escape the vengeful Trojans. Others were clambering up the black hulls, hoping to avoid death on the decks above, while a few simply threw away their weapons and crashed into the waves, thinking they could swim to safety with their armour weighing about them. And yet there were many more who turned again and fought, encouraged by the presence of Great Ajax as he bellowed commands over the ringing of weapons and the crashing of the waves. Eperitus watched him run up a gangplank to the deck of a galley – closely followed by Teucer – where he seized one of the long spears used for ship-to-ship fighting and began stabbing at the Trojans swarming below. The last Eperitus saw of him was as he pushed the weapon into the chest of a young man running towards the ships with a lighted torch in his hand, ready to toss it on to the bone-dry decks. The lad fell back into the sand with a scream, still clutching the torch as his legs quivered in the last throes of life.
Eperitus turned to Omeros, but found he was no longer with him. He looked around, desperately searching the many figures running this way and that across the beach, but could see no sign of the young bard. A pang of regret coursed through him, then he saw a man from the corner of his eye, running towards him with his sword raised.
Eperitus threw up his shield and took the blow on the thick leather hide, forcing his attacker’s arm wide. Before the man could bring his shield across, Eperitus had plunged his weapon into the gap and found his abdomen, punching a hole through the leather armour and on into his soft stomach. Dark blood gushed out on to the sand as he withdrew his sword from the wound, and the Trojan fell quivering and whimpering to his knees, his eyes wide with the shock of the pain. Eperitus spared him the long and agonizing death of a stomach wound with a swift jab to his throat, but as the body collapsed at his feet he saw another figure approaching. This man, however, was in no hurry. He swept aside his black cloak to reveal scaled bronze armour that gleamed in the bright sunshine. Tugging at the cords beneath his chin, he seized the plume of his helmet and pulled it from his head.
‘We meet again, Son,’ Apheidas said.
Patroclus stood at the mouth of Agamemnon’s tent and looked north, where the fighting was at its fiercest. The distant roar and clatter of battle was unbearable to his warrior’s ears, powerless as he was to follow his instinct and go to the aid of the Greeks. There had been no sign of action from the Myrmidon camp beyond the conti
nuous loading of the galleys, and no recall from Achilles, ordering him to don his armour and prepare for battle. As far as anyone knew, the greatest fighter in the Greek army was still standing on the prow of his ship, tending to his grudge and gloating over Agamemnon’s discomfort while his countrymen perished at the hands of the Trojans. Patroclus gave a frustrated snort and kicked the sand at his feet.
‘Here you are.’
Patroclus turned to see Odysseus, leaning on his spear with his body armour hanging from his other hand. His bandages were dark with sweat from the warm, humid air, and the bloodstain on his left side had spread in a wide circle beneath his ribs.
‘Is it still going against us?’ he continued. ‘Agamemnon refuses to come out and see for himself. Nestor and I had to persuade him against giving the order to launch the galleys back into the sea and head for home.’
‘There wouldn’t be time anyway.’ Patroclus dismissed the notion. ‘The Trojans would be on you before you could remove the props and push the hulls back down into the water. Only the Myrmidons will come away from these beaches alive today.’
‘Ah, the Myrmidons,’ Odysseus said, glancing south to where the Phthian camp lay hidden beyond the sea of tents.
Patroclus drew a deep breath through his teeth, then, exhaling through his pinched nostrils, he turned to Odysseus. ‘You don’t have to die with the rest of them, you know. Achilles will be more than happy to take you with us. And Diomedes and Nestor, too, if they’re willing.’
Odysseus shook his head. ‘Nestor won’t leave without Antilochus, and Diomedes has too much pride. As for me, I’ve no wish to abandon my countrymen and my honour on the shores of Ilium, though I thank you for the offer, Patroclus. If this is the end, then I will die fighting where I stand, and cursing the gods with my last breath for their false promises. Here, give me a hand with this, will you?’ He raised the body armour and pointed to his large, triangular abdomen.