by Glyn Iliffe
‘That wouldn’t do you any good, if I had a mind to harm you.’
He turned to see Athena, sitting in his own chair by the hearth. She was dressed in her white chiton, her shield, helmet and spear absent, and her large eyes seemed unconscious of his nakedness as they stared at him. Odysseus blinked in surprise for a moment then knelt and bowed his head.
‘Am I still dreaming?’ he asked, looking up slightly.
‘No.’
‘Then things must be coming to a climax. This is the third time you’ve appeared to me in just a few weeks, Mistress.’
‘Come closer, Odysseus,’ she commanded, rising from the chair and reaching out to take his hand. Her touch was cool and smooth, not at all human, and there was a tender, almost pitying concern in her grey eyes. ‘Things are indeed coming to their end and you are likely to see more of me as this war reaches its conclusion. But – strange as it might seem to you – the plans of the gods cannot be fulfilled without human intervention.’
‘Is that what brings you here from Olympus?’
She reached out and stroked his red hair. ‘You haven’t forgotten what I said at the river?’
‘No, Mistress.’
‘Good, because the time is nigh. Tomorrow, Ajax will lay claim to Achilles’s armour. You must challenge him and stop him from winning it.’
Odysseus frowned and let his hand slip from hers.
‘When you spoke before, I thought you meant Ajax would seek the armour by treachery. But now Achilles is dead, Ajax has a blood right to his possessions. What right do I have to make a claim?’
‘Have you already forgotten Achilles’s last words?’
‘But Achilles thought I was the only one who had come to save him. And without Ajax’s great strength his body and armour would never have been saved from the Trojans at all.’
‘And did you not fight off the Trojans while he carried his cousin’s corpse?’ Athena said, her face growing sterner at Odys-seus’s protests.
Odysseus looked down at the flames.
‘I did, and I don’t deny part of me wants the armour, my lady. Ever since I laid eyes on it I felt the pull of its enchantment. And I haven’t forgotten how Palamedes called me a poor king of a poor country, with nothing to speak of my greatness.’
‘The armour would give you that,’ Athena said, softly once more.
‘But it’s not right. The armour should go to Ajax, not me. His pride won’t stand it going to someone else.’
‘Do you think we immortals care what you think is right or wrong, Odysseus?’ Athena warned him, angrily. ‘Ajax will be punished for his constant blasphemies and unless you want yourself and your family to face our fury you will do as we command – and you will do it alone, without telling Eperitus or anyone else. Claim the armour and make it your own, by whatever means you can!’
As she spoke, the hearth blazed up, forcing Odysseus to shield himself from the heat. But a moment later the flames died back down, and as Odysseus took his hand from his face the goddess’s harsh expression had softened again.
‘There’s another thing you should know. If Ajax takes the armour he will keep it to himself. But Zeus has decreed it should go to another, one even more worthy of it than Ajax. Unless that man joins the army and takes Achilles’s place, Troy won’t fall. And unless Troy falls, you will never see Ithaca, or Penelope, or Telemachus again. Human intervention, Odysseus.’
‘But who is this man you speak of?’
Athena shook her head, her form becoming insubstantial. Like smoke in a breeze, she drifted into nothing before Odysseus’s eyes.
That will be revealed in its own time,’ her fading voice replied. ‘But if you want to go home, my dear Odysseus, win the armour.’
The king of Ithaca wetted his finger and held it up in the air. It was all for show, of course: the wind always blew from the northwest and he could tell its direction from the way it fanned the sweat on his naked body, not to mention the fact that the pall of smoke from Achilles’s funeral pyre was trailing away towards the south-east. But the funeral games were as much a spectacle in respect of the dead as they were a competition for rich prizes and the honour they carried with them, so Odysseus went through all the required motions before the eyes of the thousands of soldiers who were crowded along the edge of the beach.
He stretched his arms behind his back, interlacing his fingers and locking his elbows so that the muscles of his back and arms tensed. After a few moments he let his arms fall to his sides and began to roll his shoulders in forward circles, loosening the muscles there while at the same time tipping his head back and closing his eyes against the bright midday sun. Finally, he placed his fists on his hips and, keeping his back straight, bent his knees several times in succession as the crowd clapped or jeered, depending on which of the competitors they supported.
His limbering-up exercises complete, he turned and raised his hand to the line of benches where the Greek leaders sat in expectation, backed by crowds of noisy soldiers. In the centre were Menelaus, Agamemnon and Nestor. Menelaus was leaning forward and chewing on a finger, while Nestor seemed distant and tired, his wise head greyer and even more bent with age since the death of Antilochus. Between them, reclining in his bulky, fur-draped throne, the King of Men’s blue eyes scrutinized Odysseus with cold detachment. Then he gave a curt nod and Odysseus turned to his left.
A few paces from where he stood was a mound of earth that formed a dark circle on the white sand. The palm prints of the men who had patted it into shape were still visible, though the smooth surface had since been broken by the footmarks of the two previous contestants, Sthenelaus and Podarces. Beyond the mound was a long stretch of clear beach marked off by the mass of onlookers to the right and the line of galleys and the sea to the left. At the far end was the barrow Achilles had erected for Patroclus, with the smoking remains of Achilles’s own funeral pyre tumbled and blackened before it. A large altar had been set up a little to the left, where the many animals that had been sacrificed to Achilles’s memory had bathed it red with their gore and darkened the sand in a large circle around it.
But Odysseus gave no mind to these remnants of the morning’s funeral. He narrowed his eyes in determination and stepped up to the mound. Eperitus, who had been standing a few paces behind, followed and handed him something dull and heavy. Odysseus took the discus in his right hand and looked down at it: a lump of cast iron, about the size of a small plate but heavy enough to strain at the hard muscles of his forearm and bicep. Nodding at Eperitus, who returned to where he had been waiting, Odysseus tipped the discus back against the heel of his thumb and gripped its lower edge with the ends of his fingers, before swinging his body round so that his weight shifted on to his right leg. Leaning forward and placing his left hand on his right knee, he began to swing the discus while using the toes of his free foot for balance. A moment later he fixed his stern gaze on the distant barrow, raised the discus as high as he could over his right shoulder, then, with a great shout, swung his body round and let go. The discus arced high and long through the air, silencing the onlookers as it spun over the stretch of naked beach, its flight seemingly interminable as it continued to rise like a bird on the wing, only reaching its zenith as it passed over the marks of Podarces and Sthenelaus before smacking the sand and bouncing on into the remains of the funeral pyre, where its long course ended in a puff of ash.
The incredulous pause that followed was quickly broken by a long roar of approval from the crowd of spectators. Even the men who had jeered him before now joined in the celebration as Odysseus raised his arms to the crowd, his bearded face broken by his beaming smile. He turned and met Eperitus’s exultant embrace, and the two men were soon surrounded by a crowd of Ithacans, cheering and shouting their king’s name.
‘Stand aside!’ ordered a booming voice. ‘Or have you forgotten that I also put my name forward for this competition? The prize is not yours yet, Odysseus.’
Silence fell and every eye turned to see Grea
t Ajax standing ankle-deep in the soft sand. He had stripped naked and was holding a large discus in his right hand. It was twice the normal size and must have been four times as heavy, but Ajax carried it with ease in his fingertips. On either side of him were Teucer and Little Ajax. The former twitched nervously as he hid in his half-brother’s shadow, while the latter scowled with disdain, the snake about his shoulders hissing and flicking its forked tongue at the Ithacan king.
‘Of course,’ Odysseus answered, stepping down from the mound.
‘That was a good throw for a short man,’ Ajax said, squinting as he looked to where Odysseus’s discus had landed. ‘Perhaps Athena lent you her strength, as usual. But I will beat it, and without the help of any god!’
He spat on the sand and assumed the same position Odysseus had adopted, quickly swinging the discus back and forth until he felt the momentum reach its peak. Then he opened his fingers and let it go, emptying his lungs in a deafening bellow as the heavy weight went spinning high into the air. Odysseus shielded his eyes with the flat of his hand and watched it soar over the marks of the first two casts before dipping in a straight line towards Patroclus’s barrow. He knew the instant it had left Ajax’s hand that it would surpass his own throw, but it was with dismay that he saw it sail clean over the top of the tall mound to bury itself in the sand beyond.
Ajax ignored the roar that erupted from the ranks of the Greeks, choosing instead to turn and look triumphantly at Odysseus. Agamemnon stood and raised his sceptre in both hands over his head, keeping it there until silence had fallen.
‘I announce Ajax the winner,’ he called in a clear voice. ‘Bring the prize.’
A group of male slaves appeared from a nearby tent, carrying three copper tripods and matching cauldrons between them. Agamemnon pointed at Ajax and the men struggled over the soft sand towards him, only for the giant warrior to give his prize a cursory glance and send the slaves in the direction of his own tents at the far end of the beach.
As if to reinforce Odysseus’s humiliation, the King of Men now beckoned him forward to receive the runner-up’s prize – a donkey’s foal that brayed loudly as it was dragged from the tent. But before the attendant slave could hand him the rope that was tied around its neck, a commotion broke out among the crowd of soldiers. Men were pointing towards the sea and crying out in a mixture of disbelief and terror. The kings and princes, too, rose from their benches and stared in shocked awe at where the breakers of the Aegean were crashing upon the beach.
Odysseus turned and ran back down to where Eperitus and Ajax were looking in silence at the sea.
‘What’s happening to the water?’ Ajax asked, looking confused.
Odysseus ignored him and took the cloak Eperitus was holding out to him. By now a stretch of sea beyond the black hulls of the galleys was bubbling and smoking, as if a great fire had been lit beneath the waves and the waters were boiling in agony. Then shapes began to rise up from the turbulence, liquid in form and translucent at first, but quickly changing into flesh as they caught the sunlight. To the amazement of the thousands of onlookers – and no less so to Odysseus and Eperitus, who had seen it before – the first shape took the form of a young woman as she walked up out of the sea, a golden urn held in her hands. A dozen more sea nymphs followed in her wake, all of them young, beautiful and naked, finally halting on the beach halfway between the edge of the water and the throne of Agamemnon.
‘I am Thetis, mother of Achilles,’ the first announced. She spoke slowly, the grief in her immortal eyes clear for all to see. ‘I have brought this urn for my son’s ashes, a gift for him in death from the gods who forsook him in life.’
Overcoming his initial shock, Agamemnon snapped his fingers and waved Talthybius forward. The herald approached slowly and fearfully at first, until – remembering the eyes of the Greek army were upon him and finding his courage – he reached out and took the urn from the goddess’s hands. As he retreated in the direction of the funeral pyre, Agamemnon rose from his throne, took a few steps towards Thetis, then fell to his knees before her and bowed his head. With a great rustling like the wind sweeping across the canopy of a forest, the rest of the army followed his example.
‘My lady, accept our condolences for the loss of your son, whose like will never be seen on this earth again. May we also offer you our gratitude for his services to the army and invite you to join us in a feast honouring you and the glorious Achilles?’
‘Your words are tipped with honey, oh King of Men, but in your heart there is no grief for my son’s passing. He has been a thorn in your side ever since the fleet left Aulis: always the most difficult to control, the hardest to please and the most terrible to cross. He was your best fighter, yet you and many others are relieved he is dead. Do you deny this?’
Agamemnon kept his eyes fixed on Thetis’s white feet and said nothing.
‘I do not condemn you, King Agamemnon, for my son was always headstrong and proud. Much though his father loved him, even Peleus was relieved when he left for this war of yours. Achilles was too much of a man to be content in peacetime and only a little less at ease in war. And yet you are a fool if you think your internal problems ended with his death. He may have passed down to the realms of the dead, but he leaves a legacy of strife behind him. Behold, Greeks, the armour of Achilles!’
Odysseus and Eperitus, along with every other man in the army, raised their heads to see that the armour was now at Thetis’s side. The heavy cuirass that was the image of Achilles’s muscle-bound torso stood at the centre, with the golden helmet and its flowing, blood-red plume planted in the sand before it; the ornately patterned greaves – with the shaped cup on the right greave that had failed to prevent the designs of another god penetrating Achilles’s heel – lay crossed over each other to the right of the helmet; while leaning against the left side of the breastplate was the broad shield with its concentric, intricately carved circles depicting scenes of war and peace.
‘The Olympians have sent me here,’ Thetis continued, ‘to award this armour to the bravest of the Greeks who fought before the Scaean Gate, in the battle where my son was slain. But you must decide between yourselves who was the most courageous. If any man here thinks he showed the greatest valour – or believes he is worthy to wear the armour of Achilles – then let him step forward to be judged by his peers under King Agamemnon!’
The challenge rolled out across the wide bay and settled on the hearts of every soldier present. For a moment, all those who had fought in the battle felt the temptation to state his claim. Even Eperitus found himself reflecting on his part in the retreat and the number of Trojans he had killed. Without him, Achilles’s body would never have been brought back to the ships; surely, a smooth voice whispered in his head, he had as much right to the prize as any other man. And with a sudden greed his eyes fell on the gleaming armour at Thetis’s side.
But his ardour cooled as quickly as it had gripped him. A more sobering voice had stilled his mind, telling him he would be a fool to think his part in the retreat had been greater than that of some others – and of two men in particular: Great Ajax, who had carried the heavy corpse back to the ships without any weapons to defend himself, despising all thoughts of his own danger in his desire to save his cousin’s body; and Odysseus, who had fought with a fury Eperitus had never seen in the king before, throwing the Trojans back again and again with no regard for their numbers. Some had been so afraid of him that they had abandoned their arms in fear and pleaded to be spared his wrath.
The same conclusion dawned on Diomedes, Menelaus, Little Ajax and a host of others, and they lowered their eyes so that the sight of the splendid armour would not tempt them to make fools of themselves. Of all the great warriors who had taken part in the fighting, only two now rose to their feet and walked towards Thetis. Odysseus and Ajax had accepted the challenge.
Chapter Forty-Four
THE DEBATE
Thetis left her son’s armour on the beach and returned to the sea. Her
nymphs followed, singing a mournful dirge as the waves reabsorbed their watery bodies. Their voices were so sweet and ethereal that the Greeks were held in thrall for a long time after they had gone, their hearts torn with renewed sadness for the great Achilles. It was Agamemnon who finally broke the spell, rising from his throne and ordering the benches of the council to be formed into a circle with his own seat at its head. The awarding of the armour would be decided by a debate between the two claimants, but first he insisted that Ajax and Odysseus return to their huts and prepare themselves.
Odysseus sighed, wishing Athena had not given the task to him. After she had departed his hut he had spent the remainder of the night pondering what he had to do, knowing there was no open and honest way to prove himself more worthy of Achilles’s armour than Ajax. That, of course, was exactly why the gods had chosen him: since the death of Palamedes, no one else in the army had the same instinct for trickery and cunning that would be needed for the job. But he was also concerned about how Eperitus would react. His captain’s clear-cut view on what was right and what was wrong would be sorely tested, and yet Odysseus knew he would have to rely on Eperitus’s witness if he was to win the debate – at least, not without resorting to baser methods. But the king had no choice in the matter, a fact that Athena had made very clear: carry out the will of the gods; intervene on their behalf, or suffer the war to continue without end, a punishment for the disobedience of mankind. He only wished she had not forbidden him to tell Eperitus.
‘Why in Athena’s name do you want Achilles’s armour?’
Odysseus turned to see Eperitus at his shoulder, looking angry and confused.
‘You heard what Achilles said to me,’ Odysseus replied, hating himself for the deceit he was about to carry out. ‘Besides, I earned it, bringing his body back to the camp. And do you remember how Palamedes called me a coward, saying I’d be a forgotten king without glory? What do you think he’d say if he saw me wearing the armour of Achilles, made by Hephaistos himself?’