by Glyn Iliffe
At first no one seemed to notice Ajax, despite his vast size and the sword in his hand dripping gore on the fleece below. Then a half-naked slave girl leapt from the lap of Menelaus and screamed, pointing at the blood-spattered newcomer. With three giant strides, Ajax crossed the floor of the tent and hewed her pretty head from its body. The screaming – along with the music and singing – stopped, only to be followed by a new cacophony of terrified shouts and the crash of overturned chairs and tables as people ran to the door of the tent.
But Ajax was quicker than all of them and, turning, began to lay about himself with Hector’s sword. The first to fall were the slaves, herded before their masters like sheep. The unfortunate bard was among them, holding up his lyre for protection; Ajax’s sword smashed through it with ease and opened up the man’s chest and stomach, spilling his intestines over the luxurious rugs below. Then Sthenelaus, Diomedes’s companion, attacked Ajax with a carving knife and was killed by a thrust through the heart. In his rage, Diomedes picked up a table and charged at Ajax, but the giant warrior knocked it away with a swing of his arm and sliced his obsessively sharpened sword down into Diomedes’s skull. His death shocked the other kings, who turned to the walls of the tent and began to arm themselves with the trophies Agamemnon had taken from the Trojans he had killed. But Ajax was no longer concerned with fighting battles and winning glory: he wanted to avenge himself in the blood of the men who had forsaken him, and he fell on them with the full might of his wrath. Menestheus’s arm was severed as he charged at Ajax with a spear; next Idomeneus fell, his throat opened neatly so that he dropped to the floor and poured a dark mass of blood over the heaped furs and fleeces. Many others followed, and as their bodies piled up, someone slashed open the opposite wall of the tent and sent the remaining slaves to fetch help. Then, from the ranks of the leaders – who were too proud and foolish to flee – Teucer and Little Ajax stepped forward with their hands raised. Ajax was shocked to see them there at first, but as they began to plead with him to come to his senses he realized they had betrayed him and had gone over to Agamemnon. He leapt at them in a fury and plunged his sword into his namesake first, who screamed loudly as his soul was torn from his body. Teucer followed, stabbed through the back as he turned to run. Suddenly, Ajax caught the gleam of a blade as a figure lunged at him from his right. He turned instinctively, recognized the squat, muscular figure of Odysseus, and knocked the sword from his hand before striking his attacker over the head with the pommel of his own weapon.
Now the others rushed at him as one and Ajax demonstrated to them their folly in not awarding Achilles’s armour to him. Limbs and heads were parted from torsos in a blood-drenched rage as Hector’s sword carried out the task it had been created for – to slay the enemies of Troy. Last to fall was Menelaus, who had robbed Ajax of Helen twenty years before – another great injustice that he had not been able to avenge because of the oath Odysseus had tricked the other suitors into swearing. He delivered a wound to Menelaus’s stomach and as he pleaded for mercy, Ajax smiled and asked him who he thought was the greatest of the Greeks now, before sinking the point of his sword into the Spartan king’s throat.
A sound from the shadows at the back of the tent made him turn. In the flickering glow from the hearth, Ajax could see the King of Men standing there with his hands held out like a suppliant pleading for mercy. A soothing smile was on his lips, but his cold blue eyes were full of fear.
‘Ajax, I’ve changed my mind,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘Achilles’s armour was always meant to be yours, your skill here tonight has proved that beyond doubt.’
‘You’ve had your chance to make the right decision, King of Men,’ Ajax sneered. ‘But you chose the wrong man and now I have come to collect what is rightfully mine. Your pleading and grovelling is meaningless. All your allies are dead. Your great expedition is over. And now you will die.’
Agamemnon dropped the shield and made a sudden dart for the entrance. Ajax ran to intercept him but the Mycenaean king was too quick, reaching the gore-spattered canvas flap while Ajax was still on the other side of the hearth. Then, as he tore the flap open, he slipped on the spilled intestines of the dead bard and fell. Squirming on to his back, Agamemnon looked up and saw Ajax towering over him, a vengeful grin on his brutish face as he hacked his sword down through his neck and decapitated him. But Ajax was not satisfied with merely killing the king; reaching down and seizing his jaw he pulled the mouth open and pushed the point of his sword inside. A moment later, the tongue that had awarded the armour of Achilles to Odysseus was in Ajax’s fingers. The king of Salamis held it above his head and laughed joyously, before turning and tossing it into the flames of the hearth. The fire fizzled gratefully.
Ajax’s eyes now fell on Odysseus, who was groaning as he returned to consciousness. Hanging from one of the posts that held the high roof of the tent up was a halter that Agamemnon used to train his horses. Ajax grabbed this and strode over to the king of Ithaca. Unbuckling the bronze breastplate, he lifted the two halves away from Odysseus’s torso then seized the hem of the tunic beneath and tore it open.
‘What are you doing?’ Odysseus grunted, still groggy from the blow to his head. ‘Don’t you realize this is madness?’
Ajax raised the halter over his head then brought it down with terrible force across Odysseus’s exposed back. He cried out in pain. Another blow followed, then another.
‘Stop! This is all madness.’
‘This isn’t madness, Odysseus. This is revenge!’
‘No,’ Odysseus bit back, staring up at his attacker. ‘This is madness. The gods have robbed you of your wits, Ajax. Look about yourself.’
Ajax raised his eyes to the carnage he had wreaked in the tent. Bodies and parts of bodies lay everywhere. The walls glowed red in the flames for a moment, and then faded away like a sea mist in a morning breeze. He looked up and saw that the roof of the tent was gone and he was staring instead at the full moon, drifting over a bank of thin cloud and surrounded by dim stars. His mouth opened a little and then, reluctantly at first, he lowered his gaze again and saw that he was back on the slopes overlooking the bay. The fires still burned below and there, dominating the centre of the camp, was Agamemnon’s tent. Sounds of feasting and music were carried up to him on the night air and he knew at once that the slaughter he had caused there had been but a figment of his disturbed mind. And yet he could still feel the sticky blood in the palm of his hand as it gripped the sword, and still more blood between his fingers. He held up his hands and saw they were covered in gore to his biceps.
‘What have I done?’ he whispered to himself, dropping the sword.
But instead of the clang of metal on hard earth, the heavy weapon fell on something soft. Ajax looked down and saw the sword lying across the bodies of two rams. One lay dead without a mark on its body, while the other had been decapitated and its fleece was drenched in its own blood; the head was nearby with its tongue lying beside it. All around were the bodies of sheep, goats and cattle, their moon-silvered cadavers heaped one upon another, score upon score all across the upper slope, drenching the parched grass with their dark blood. Ajax groaned and slumped to his knees, burying his head in his red hands as warm tears flooded his closed eyelids. A feeling of deep shame settled over him, pressing him down into the soft fleece of one of the butchered rams.
‘Wretched, proud fool. I thought I would teach Agamemnon and the others a lesson, but instead I have been the pupil of the gods. They’ve shown me my true self – an insolent brute and a man without honour.’
He raised his bloodstained face to the glittering firmament above and as his cry of despair rolled down the hillside to the camp below it was answered by the calling of other voices. Looking up, he saw a line of a dozen or so torches heading up the slope. Someone must have heard the terrible slaughter or be wondering why panicked livestock had been driven down among the tents. Quickly, his eyes wide and his breathing heavy, Ajax snatched up Hector’s sword and ran.
FATHER AND SON
Ajax’s hut was at the bottom of the slope. The guard stepped aside, shocked by the blood that covered the king’s body, and Ajax pushed past him through the canvas flap. The small hearth inside was a mass of smouldering embers that bathed the hut in a warm glow, and the only sounds were the soft breathing of Tecmessa mingled with the baby-snores of little Eurysaces. He crossed the floor and knelt beside them, sword still in hand.
‘My love,’ he whispered, reaching out and gently touching the locks of thick black hair that hid his wife’s face. She did not stir. ‘And Eurysaces, my boy.’
He looked down at the child and felt the tears swell up inside him again. He thought of the time he had wasted in battle or in counsel with the other army leaders, rather than spending it with his son. He recalled how he had berated Achilles for threatening to return to Phthia, and how he had declared he would rather give Tecmessa and Eurysaces up before he surrendered his honour. What a fool he had been! He had chased after glory and renown and given barely the scraps of morning and evening to his family. Now that chance was gone and in time he would be little more than a faded memory to Eurysaces; indeed, the boy would know more about him from the stories of his deeds and misdeeds than from his own recollections.
He reached out to touch his son’s hair, but stopped himself.
‘What if he wakes and sees you, sword in hand and covered in blood?’ Ajax said to himself. ‘No, leave him be. Leave them both.’
He stood and took a step back. Then he turned and saw his great, sevenfold shield propped against the back of his chair. He fetched it and laid it down gently next to his son.
‘I give this shield to you, Eurysaces,’ he said quietly as his tears fell in heavy drops on to the oxhide. ‘It was made by Tychus of Hyle, a master of his art. I named you after it, little Broad Shield, and now I hope it will always remind you of your father. Look after your mother for me. I leave her in your care now. Goodbye.’
He left the hut to find the guard had now been joined by two others. There were angry voices coming from the slopes above, where torches were moving this way and that.
‘My lord . . .’
‘Guard my wife and son. I’ve done something shameful and men will be angry with me for it, but I don’t want my family to suffer for my sake. You – fetch Teucer and Little Ajax. Tell them . . . never mind, just bring them here.’
‘But Lord Ajax, where are you going?’
Ajax ignored the soldiers’ cries and ran through the tents to the beach, continuing on past the lines of galleys until he saw the dark mound of Patroclus’s barrow ahead of him. At its heart was the golden urn Thetis had carried out of the water earlier that day, now filled with the mingled ashes of Achilles and his lover. By now the shouts on the slopes were growing dim and there were no sounds of pursuit, so he slowed to a walk as he approached the barrow. To his right the waves continued to wash up the beach as they had done since the creation of the world, drawn by the silver face of the moon that cast its ghostly light across the ocean. At last Ajax reached the barrow and knelt before it, looking all around to ensure no one else was in sight. Taking Hector’s sword, he placed the pommel against the packed earth and pushed it in so that the hilt was buried and the blade stood up towards his chest. Then he sat back on his heels.
‘If I’d known what a burden I was carrying when I brought your body back from the Scaean Gate, cousin, I’d have stripped that cursed armour off and thrown it to the Trojans there and then. Now it belongs to a lying scoundrel and my jealousy for it has driven me to terrible desires. I’ve no honour left, Achilles, and my glory lies slaughtered on the slopes above the camp. Only now do I see the gods were right to deny me your armour, and yet it pains me that they gave it to Odysseus. I only pray that they will destroy him as they’ve destroyed me. Curse you, Odysseus!’
And with that he fell forward on to the point of the sword.
The full moon had passed its zenith and was beginning to sink behind the topmost branches of the temple of Thymbrean Apollo when Eperitus heard the sound of approaching hooves. All night long he had been walking in circles, stamping his feet against the cold and rubbing his hands up and down his arms while he waited for Astynome to return from Troy, but now he slipped behind a large rock and stared up the slope towards the ridge. Moments later a line of horsemen approached carrying torches. There were a dozen at least, their outlines picked out clearly by the moonlight. One mount carried two figures, a man and a woman, and Eperitus instinctively knew they were his father and Astynome.
The horses stopped a spear’s throw from the entrance to the temple and the riders dismounted. Two men scouted forward with their naked swords gleaming, returning shortly afterwards to report the temple empty. Eperitus’s eyes could now pick out Apheidas’s face in the torchlight as he posted his men in pairs around the circle of trees, before taking Astynome and four men inside.
Eperitus felt his heart thumping hard against his ribcage. His fingers gripped the edge of the boulder as if reluctant to let go and he found himself wondering why he was there at all. It was not too late to return to where he had tethered his horse and ride south to new lands and new adventures. He did not have to become the traitor that Arceisius had accused him of being, or sell his honour for the sake of love as Palamedes had done – to be stoned to death by his comrades in punishment. But Palamedes had also been half Trojan, just as Eperitus was, and perhaps there was no such thing as treachery for men of divided blood. Perhaps they were free to choose their loyalties as they saw fit. But whether he was a traitor or not, he knew in his heart that he could not turn back now. He was an integral part of a larger tale. The gods must always have intended for him to be here, waiting to betray his friends so that he might save them; and though he did not know what lay ahead, he accepted his fate was before him, not behind him.
And still he hesitated, clinging to the boulder like a shipwrecked sailor to a broken mast. A year ago he would have charged into the temple intending to kill Apheidas or die in the attempt. Now the hatred that had dominated his entire adult life had lost its bite, even died altogether. He thought again of the encounter in the temple of Artemis at Lyrnessus and how his father had confessed himself a reformed man, regretting the mistakes of his youthful ambition. He had begged Eperitus to let the past go and the sadness in his eyes had seemed genuine – the look of a wiser man who had come to realize his family was all he had left in life. Doubtless his offer of peace could just be a trap, but Apheidas had already passed up better chances to take his son’s life, and the more Eperitus thought about how he had felt after losing Iphigenia, the more he wanted to believe his father’s appeal was genuine. At last, he tore his fingers from the boulder and reached down for the shield and spear that lay beside him. But before he stepped out to approach the nearest pair of Trojan guards – who were still some way off – he turned and gave a low whistle.
‘Come on out.’
He sensed the man’s breathing stop as he tried not to make any sound.
‘Arceisius, I know you’ve followed me here. Don’t force me to come over there and drag you out.’
There was a pause and then a cloaked figure stood up from behind a clump of scrubby bushes and came running over at a stoop.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew I was there?’ Arceisius complained. ‘At least you’ve been able to move around and stamp your feet to keep warm; I’ve been lying there freezing half the night when all you needed to do was come over and put me out of my misery.’
‘It’ll teach you not to interfere where you’re not welcome. But now you’re here, what is it you want?’
‘To protect you from your own foolishness. If you’re going to betray your countrymen then I can’t stop you; but if things don’t turn out as you’re expecting then you could do with an extra sword at your side. And I’m not convinced this isn’t a trap.’
‘It’s not a trap.’
‘All the same, I haven’t
fought alongside you for ten years just to leave you when you need me most. At the very least I’m going to stay by you until they slam the gates of Troy in my face.’
‘And much use you’ll be with just that sword if it is a trap,’ Eperitus sniffed.
‘I’d have made too much noise carrying my shield and spear.’
‘Not much more than you did without them. But if you insist on coming, then let’s go.’
They stood to their full height and walked towards the nearest picket. The two Trojans spotted them quickly and lowered their spears.
‘Not a step closer! Who are you and what’s your business here?’
‘I am Eperitus, son of Apheidas,’ Eperitus replied in their own language, naming his sire for the first time in many years. ‘And this is Arceisius, son of Arnaeus. I’ve come to speak with my father.’
‘Apheidas is awaiting you,’ the guard said, relaxing a little. ‘But there was no mention of anyone else. Your friend will have to stay here with us.’
‘Either Arceisius comes with me or we both leave now.’
After a whispered discussion with his comrade, the soldier nodded and signalled for the two men to follow. He led them up to the top of the ridge from where they could see the dark, moonlit mass of Troy beyond the River Scamander, then turned with his torch held above his head and pointed at their weapons.