The Armour of Achilles

by Glyn Iliffe

  And yet, she thought, if his father did not return from Troy soon, little Telemachus would have to learn to fight to defend his kingdom. Ithaca’s wolves had woken from their slumber and were regarding his inheritance with hungry eyes, while the forces that stood in their way were growing weaker in comparison. A silent, undeclared war had begun and Phronius, it seemed, was its first victim. The old man had fallen to his death in the sea below his isolated house, leaving a single sandal at the cliff’s edge to show he had not disappeared completely. In public people said he must have stumbled in the darkness and fallen on the rocks, from whence the waves had taken his body out to sea. But in private there were many who believed his death had been no accident.

  He had also left a vacancy on the Kerosia, and it had taken less than two days for the chief wolf to call upon Penelope and demand a replacement be chosen. Someone young, Eupeithes had suggested, to counterbalance the grey heads of Laertes, Halitherses, Polyctor and himself, not to mention that the other two members of the Kerosia – Nisus and Mentor – were both in their forties. His proposition, as he had sat with Penelope in the great hall the night before, was that his own son, Antinous, should take Phronius’s place.

  Penelope had laughed off the suggestion, but Eupeithes was not one to be easily dissuaded. She recalled his pale, mole-covered face, orange in the firelight as his fat body sat wedged into the chair opposite her. His long, feminine hands were folded together beneath his chin and his dark, intelligent eyes stared at her without wavering, though the friendly, understanding expression did not fool her for a moment. He wanted to know why she did not want his son on the Kerosia, and before she could reply he gave a long exposition of Antinous’s qualities. Penelope countered with a list of reasons why he was unsuitable, but Eupeithes dismissed each objection with kind and respectful ease until, finally, her arguments for rejecting Antinous had been stripped bare, leaving only her insistence that he should not be allowed on the Kerosia. At that point, Eupeithes had leaned back in his chair with a defeated sigh, nodding his acquiescence to her decision. But if Penelope had thought she was the victor in their contest, she was soon to realize otherwise. Eupeithes had simply been manoeuvring her into a corner. Now, with her resistance worn thin, he took every one of her arguments against Antinous and turned them into reasons for electing Oenops, one of the nobles most aggressively opposed to the conscription of replacements to go to Troy. And indeed, Oenops would have made an excellent member of the council were it not for the fact he was every bit Eupeithes’s man. But Penelope’s arguments against Antinous could not now be turned on their head to reject Oenops, and when Eupeithes reminded her of how she was in his debt for preventing a rebellion of Ithaca’s nobles, she gave in.

  She looked again at Telemachus and felt she had betrayed him. She had called a meeting of the Kerosia for that evening and was not looking forward to telling Laertes, Mentor and Halitherses that Oenops was its newest member. Now only Nisus – the seventh member, and every bit loyal to Odysseus – continued to ensure that Eupeithes, with Polyctor and Oenops, did not control Ithaca’s governing council.

  Suddenly, more than at any time since those first few months after Odysseus had sailed for Troy, Penelope wanted her husband back. There was a strength about Odysseus that was like a wall, keeping all the dangers of the world at bay so that to those he sheltered the world seemed a safe and happy place. She would have given anything to see him on his throne again, bringing stability back to his island; but her deepest longing was to have him back in the intimacy of their bed, to be able to love him with all her mind and body again and know the long years of loneliness were over.

  But Odysseus was gone and his return seemed more distant now than it had ten years ago, when he had left her to defend his kingdom in his absence. What was more, Penelope knew it was up to her to protect Telemachus. For if the wolves wanted Ithaca, they could not have it while Odysseus’s son lived.

  ‘Achilles! Achilles is coming!’

  Eperitus and Apheidas looked to the south, where dozens of Trojan horsemen were galloping back across the sand and between the broken tents. They were shouting the name of Achilles and the fear in their eyes was clear enough. As they passed, the Trojan infantry pulled back from the beleaguered bands of Greeks they had been attacking and looked in the direction of the panic; their opponents did the same. Everyone sensed a wind of change was now blowing across the battlefield, crushing the victorious ardour of the Trojans and raising the spirits of the Greeks.

  ‘Achilles,’ Apheidas repeated cautiously, before turning his eyes on Eperitus. ‘If it’s true, then perhaps the war won’t end today. But if Hector is denied his victory, don’t think that Agamemnon will find his. The war will go on, Eperitus, and only you and I can end it. Remember my offer of peace, Son: peace between us for the sake of peace between nations and the salvation of many.’

  He gave him a last, lingering look, then turned and ran towards a throng of Trojan spearmen. As Eperitus stooped to retrieve his sword, watching his father disappear amongst the shields of the retreating enemy, he heard a deep voice call out to him. He turned to see Ajax staggering across the body-strewn beach, the blazing galley pouring sparks and smoke into the sky behind him.

  ‘Eperitus!’ he gasped, exhausted. Eperitus went to support him but his help was dismissed with a wave of the king’s giant hand. ‘No, I’m not hurt – though Hector came closer than any man has ever done to killing me. But is it true what they’re saying, that Achilles has returned? The mere sound of his name has sent the Trojans running from the ships and saved the fleet from being torched.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eperitus answered, looking over his shoulder to where the sound of battle had gained a renewed fury. ‘Where’s Hector?’

  ‘He went to stem the retreat, and if he hadn’t I might not be here now.’

  For the first time Eperitus saw the shadow of defeat in Ajax’s eyes. How different from the day when he had first seen him, twenty years ago in the palace at Sparta. Then he was young, powerful and arrogant as he laid his claim on Helen. But today his confidence in his own supremacy had finally been broken.

  ‘You forget you nearly beat him on the slopes above the Scamander,’ Eperitus comforted him. ‘If he mastered you today it’s because you’ve taken on the greater burden of the fighting, that’s all.’

  ‘And Hector hasn’t?’ Ajax laughed, ironically. ‘No, Eperitus, the difference today was that Hector could smell victory in the smoke from the galley. He was like one of the gods, assured of his own immortality. But it seems the Olympians aren’t going to destroy us today, after all. Let’s find Achilles and throw the Trojans back on to the plain.’

  As he spoke a great cheer erupted from the Greek soldiers, who raised their spears in the air and cried out in delight. At the same time, the scattered Trojans fell back from the beach altogether and reformed in a dense line amidst the remains of the camp. Then Achilles rode up in his chariot drawn by a pair of pure white horses, the immortal Xanthus and the mortal, but equally splendid, Pedasus. Achilles’s gore-spattered spear was raised high above his head and his black-plumed helmet shone like a mirror in the sunlight, the grimacing mask that formed the visor both wonderful and terrible to look on. The bronze breastplate was shaped and patterned with equal skill – though it was criss-crossed with the scars of war – and the shield on his arm was stuck with arrows that had failed to pierce the many-layered leather. The sight of the famous armour alone had sapped the courage from the veins of the Trojans and sent them reeling back in fear of its owner; and as the chariot rode up to the burning galley – with the Myrmidons behind him in five, solidly packed companies – Eperitus and Ajax felt their own fighting spirit revived in equal measure.

  ‘Achilles!’ Ajax shouted exuberantly, his near defeat by Hector forgotten as he ran up to the chariot. ‘Thank the gods you’re back, and not a moment too soon. I knew you couldn’t resist a rich fight like this!’

  But the man did not remove his helmet or tak
e Ajax enthusiastically by the hand, as Achilles had always done whenever they had met on previous battlefields. Instead, he looked down on him with cold indifference, his eyes gleaming behind the narrow eyeholes; then he ordered the chariot about and, signalling for a group of Myrmidons to douse the fire in the galley, moved slowly towards the waiting Trojans, leaving Ajax silent and confused on the sand.

  ‘Hey, there! Eperitus!’ boomed a voice.

  Eperitus turned to see Peisandros standing at the head of a company of Myrmidons. His well-fed torso was encased in armour and he held a tall spear in his large fist, which he let fall into the crook of his elbow as Eperitus ran across and took his hand.

  ‘What made Achilles change his mind?’ Eperitus asked.

  ‘There’ll be time for questions once we’ve pushed the Trojans out of the camp,’ Peisandros growled. ‘Until then, why don’t you join my company? We can avenge the blood of our comrades together.’

  Eperitus nodded and slipped into the ranks of the Myrmidons. Just then a hail of arrows arced up from behind the Trojan lines and fell amongst the Greeks; the Greek archers replied, followed by the infantry, who hurled their spears with angry shouts at the enemy shield-wall. Then the order to advance was given and the Myrmidons sprang forward, eager to come to grips with the Trojans after idling by their campfires for so long. The rest of the Greeks charged too, while ahead of them all ran the chariot of Achilles, its heavy wheels bouncing across the shattered remains of the dead and dying. Patroclus pulled back his arm and cast his spear into the massed enemy. The bronze point struck a Trojan noble in the shoulder, severing the ligaments at the base of the arm and wrenching the bone from its socket. As the man tumbled backwards with a scream, Patroclus leapt down from the chariot and dashed in amongst the Trojan spearmen, felling more men and tearing a hole in the line as the rest broke and scattered.

  An instant later, the rejuvenated Greek army crashed against the wall of shields that Hector and his captains had been busy organizing. But their efforts were to no avail. On every side, Achilles’s Myrmidons used the strength of their fresh limbs to beat down the exhausted enemy, slaughtering the Trojans like sheep until the front line had been shattered and those behind were sent streaming back to the gates. In a few short, frenzied moments the battle for the ships had been lost, and along with it the Trojans’ best hope of ever ridding their country of the hated invaders.

  The Greeks chased them out of the gates and on to the plain where the carnage continued with a vengeful lust, transforming men into monsters. They killed without mercy, thinking only of the friends and kinsmen they had lost. But as the retreat turned into a rout, Patroclus halted his chariot at one of the causeways that crossed the ditch and looked out at the fleeing army before him. It was a sight that would warm any warrior’s heart: a broken enemy with no strength to fight and no hope of refuge on the open flatlands. To massacre them as they ran would leave the walls of Troy defenceless; the Greeks could plunder Priam’s city and put it to the torch that very day. And yet, as the daylight grew strangely dim for the early afternoon, Patroclus recalled Achilles’s warning not to go beyond the gates. Then he looked out and saw the Trojans were re-forming again, led by Sarpedon and his Lycians. The tipping point had come: should he recall the Myrmidons and leave the exhausted Greeks to fight on alone, surely giving the Trojans the chance to save most of their army and fight another day? Or should he order the pursuit and destroy them utterly, bringing total victory and earning himself the glory that Achilles had never allowed him? And then a quieter, darker voice spoke from the back of his mind: did he always want to live on the crumbs of glory that fell from Achilles’s table? Was he not a great fighter in his own right, capable of killing Hector himself and breaking open the gates of Troy? Did not the name of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, deserve to be immortalized? His face was transformed with an angry scowl as he let the words take hold of him, and a moment later his chariot was dashing towards the wall of Trojan and Lycian shields.

  Eperitus watched him speeding across the dry grass where the bodies from two days of fighting still lay. Once more, the open ground before the walls was the scene of battle, though this time it was the turn of the Trojans to be harried to their deaths. Everywhere, the men of Troy and her allies were falling to their knees and begging to be taken prisoner, physically and mentally too exhausted to continue the fight. Many others did not dare risk their lives to the mercy of the Greeks and either ran headlong in the direction of Troy or turned and fought. Of the latter, some stood alone and were quickly overwhelmed, while others formed small, desperate bands of warriors and fought on for as long as they could. Still more had seen the stand the Lycians and Trojans were making under Sarpedon and ran to join them. All around the terrible din of battle rose into the air once again, like the clatter of hundreds of woodsmen felling trees on a hillside: sword against sword, spear against shield, axe against helmet. And as the Greeks cried out with the joy of battle, cutting down their enemies with ruthless energy, Eperitus’s heart sank. There was little glory in the slaughter of men who were throwing away their arms and begging for clemency, and as the sun’s light faded in a cloudless sky he knew he had to do something. The warrior’s creed called for a man to slay his enemies and bring glory to his own name, but it was not an excuse for murder.

  He began to run from one man to another, calling on them to spare the Trojans who had thrown themselves at their knees, reminding them that there was more to be gained from ransoming prisoners or selling them into slavery than opening their throats like sacrificial animals. Some cursed his efforts and carried on the butchery with frenzied eyes, while others stayed their weapons and felt the grip of sanity return to them. Then, amid the horror of ringing weapons and screaming men, Eperitus felt his heart go cold and his senses reel in confusion. The light was being slowly sucked out of the day, turning the very air heavy and brown. Others sensed it, too, and many cowered down as their primeval instincts told them something was wrong. Looking up, Eperitus cried out in fear as he saw that the brilliant face of the sun was slowly turning to black. Many others shouted in dismay also, some even dropping their weapons and throwing their arms over their heads in terror as the bright sunshine was turned to a stifled gloaming.

  And then a voice cried out over the battlefield: ‘A sign! A sign from Zeus. Troy’s doom is at hand.’

  Eperitus turned and saw Achilles in his chariot, raising his spear over his head and exhorting the Greeks to press their attacks harder. And yet he knew the voice did not belong to Achilles.

  The Myrmidons were the first to throw off their stupor and launch back into the fray. They bore down on the shield-wall Sarpedon had marshalled against them, felling several of their enemy as they remained in awe of the partially eclipsed sun. But the Trojans were quick to recover and soon checked the attack with a furious effort, inspired by the figure of Sarpedon at their backs. The dust that rose from the battle was as grey as ash in the dusky half-light, choking both sides as they struggled against each other, pushing this way and that like treetops caught in a gale as yet more men were brought down into the long grass, spilling their blood over the dry earth and sending their souls to the Underworld.

  Peisandros ordered his company to join the fray and Eperitus ran with them, all the time throwing glances at the man in Achilles’s chariot. Something more than the sound of his voice told him that the man was not Achilles, and he had resolved to get a closer look when a shout of defiance rang out across the lines of battle. Sarpedon rode up in his chariot and hurled a spear at the commander of the Myrmidons. It missed its target and thumped into the mortal Pedasus, toppling the chariot on to its side as the animal fell and throwing its occupants to the ground. Patroclus was on his feet in an instant and, snatching up his spear, threw it with deadly accuracy at the Lycian king. Sarpedon twisted aside at the last moment and the weapon took his driver in the chest, sending him flailing backwards from the car.

  Crying out with fury, Sarpedon took hold of his second
spear and jumped to the ground. The lines of men between him and Patroclus herded aside as the king drew back his weapon and took aim; but the throw was hasty and the long shaft passed harmlessly over Patroclus’s shoulder. Determined to kill the man he believed was Achilles, Sarpedon slipped his sword from its scabbard and ran at his opponent, while behind him his men filled the air with their cheers. But before he could cover half the distance between them, Patroclus snatched a spear from one of his soldiers and launched it at the Lycian. It caught him just below the heart, stopping his great bulk dead as the bronze tip punched through his armour and bored a channel into his flesh and bone beneath. Sarpedon’s eyes widened with shock as blood gushed from his mouth to darken his beard and chest. He seized the heavy spear with both hands and pulled it slowly from his body, before falling to his knees and dropping face-forward into the grass.

  Tasting the glory that had been denied him for so long, Patroclus gave a triumphant shout and leapt on the huge form of Sarpedon. Cutting the chin strap with his dagger, he pulled the crested helmet from his head and tossed it into the jubilant ranks of his Myrmidons. Next he sliced through the leather buckles that held Sarpedon’s scaled cuirass in place and tore it from his muscular torso, hurling it with a grunt in the wake of the helmet. Then, as he tugged the greaves from his victim’s shins, a groan escaped Sarpedon’s lips and his arm reached out towards the Lycian lines.

  ‘Avenge me,’ he called out as his countrymen stood rooted to the ground with shock and grief. ‘Do not let the Greeks drag my body away, to be devoured by their dogs. Avenge me!’

  And with that he fell back into the grass and his last breath exited his lips. Patroclus, still kneeling at the dead king’s side, sensed movement among the wall of enemy spearmen and looked up. By now the darkness had grown to a thick haze that weighed heavily in the air and sapped the hope from men’s hearts. And through the veil of ash-like dust that swirled with mesmerizing slowness over the bodies of the fallen, he saw Hector standing at the front of the Lycians, his sword in his hand with the tip resting in the dirt. His dark eyes were fixed on the corpse of Sarpedon and he barely seemed to be breathing, though his nostrils were wide and his free hand was trembling.