The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

by Iliffe, Glyn

  He sprang across the pool, seemingly heedless of the weight of his armour or the great ash spear that most men could barely lift, and ran towards the grassy ridge that led to the plains beyond. The others followed, spreading out into a line as they topped the ridge and looking across at the sun-bleached walls of the Greek camp and the dark mass of the Trojan army that lapped about them. They were still some way to the north-west of the raging battle, but they could hear the roar of thousands of voices and the ringing of weapons. Hundreds of ladders were visible against the battlements, where indistinct figures struggled for mastery over each other.

  Neoptolemus, who had instinctively knelt down in the high grass to observe the battle, turned as Odysseus, Diomedes and Eperitus joined him. His young eyes were alive with excitement.

  ‘The Trojans are already on the walls. It’ll be a fair sprint if you’re up to it, but we haven’t a moment to lose.’

  Diomedes shook his head and pointed at the crowds of Trojan cavalry waiting impatiently behind the mass of attacking spearmen. ‘They’d spot us before we could cover half the distance. We’d be cut to pieces on the open plain.’

  ‘We’ll follow the gulley,’ Odysseus said, indicating the dried up stream that fed down into the cove from the plateau. It curved eastward in a thin line that swept behind the waiting cavalry, reaching to within a spear’s throw of them before veering off to the north. Though the water had disappeared with the summer sun, the tall grasses that marked its course would provide them with reasonable cover if they kept their heads low.

  Neoptolemus clearly disliked the notion of sneaking into a fight, but gave a reluctant nod and followed Odysseus at a stoop along the shallow gulley. The rest trailed after them, over sixty in all, and the clatter of their armour and weapons earned stern rebukes from Diomedes and Sthenelaus as they brought up the rear. Last of all was Eperitus, who had lingered as long as possible while his sharp eyes swept the ranks of restless horsemen in search of Apheidas. His father was the commander of the Trojan cavalry, and though Eperitus knew he had to be somewhere on the battlefield, he was unable to pick out the hated figure from among the multitude of the enemy. Clutching his spears in his hand, he followed Sthenelaus into the narrow defile.

  Fortunately, the din of the battle covered the sound of their approach and the hundreds of horsemen did not spot them through the tall brown grass as they traced the course of the dead stream to a point behind the nearest squadron. As the line of spearmen halted and lay down in the grass, Eperitus could see the backs of their enemies’ helmeted heads as they watched the battle raging on the walls. Then there was a shout of excitement and the Trojan cavalry followed it with a cheer. Eperitus dared to raise his head above the cover of the grass and saw the dust shaking from the timbers of one of the gates as it opened from within. But no force of Greeks came sallying forth. As the horsemen had guessed, the gates had been captured by the spearmen who had scaled the walls and now a flood of their comrades were pouring in through the breached defences.

  Neoptolemus chose that moment to rise to his feet. Despite the dust, his armour gleamed in the morning sun and Eperitus could see the figures moving within the concentric circles of his shield. The red plume of the helmet was like a river of blood flowing over the nape of his neck and down the back of his bronze cuirass. As he stood the other Greeks joined him, climbing awkwardly to their feet beneath their unwieldy armour. The line of warriors moved their shields onto their arms and readied their spears. Odysseus strode forward through the grass, raising his hand high above his head, and still the Greeks had not been noticed. Eperitus pressed his fingers to the picture of a white hart on the inside of his shield, a reminder of his daughter Iphigenia, the first victim of the war against Troy. Cupping a spear in his right hand, he took aim at a horseman who was unnervingly close now that he had emerged from the protection of the gulley.

  It was then that one of the Trojans turned and saw the newcomers. Confused as to why a group of spearmen were behind the cavalry and not in the thick of the fighting, he reined his horse about and trotted towards them for a closer look. An expression of alarm spread across his features and he pulled up sharply, turning his mount to the left. He shouted a warning to his countrymen, just as Neoptolemus ran forward and hurled his father’s spear at him. The bronze point drove clean through his leather cuirass and pulled him bodily from his horse, sending him crashing to the ground. Neoptolemus yelled in triumph and ran to retrieve his spear from his first kill. Several cavalrymen turned at the commotion behind them, their faces instantly transformed with fear at the sight of the enemy warriors. Then Odysseus dropped his hand and sixty spears flew through the air towards the startled Trojans.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  NEOPTOLEMUS AND EURYPYLUS

  The volley of spears was followed by the anguished cries of men and the whinnies of dying horses. Panic tore through the orderly ranks of the Trojans as mounts crashed to the ground in clouds of dust and riders struggled to control their startled beasts. Eperitus’s weapon had hit the base of his target’s spine, sending him twisting in bloody agony from the back of his horse. Gripping his remaining spear, he joined the Argives and Ithacans as they rushed the confused cavalrymen. Odysseus and Diomedes led the charging Greeks, but ahead of them all was Neoptolemus, his father’s spear retrieved and held out before him. A Trojan noble, resplendent in his cuirass of overlapping bronze scales and his boars’ tusk helmet, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and came out to meet him. Neoptolemus’s spear found his chest with stunning speed and the man toppled back from his horse, a look of shock on his face. In a single, fluid movement, Neoptolemus drew out his sword and hewed the man’s head from his shoulders. Then the line of advancing Greeks swept past him and smashed into the frightened mass of their enemies.

  Eperitus’s weapon found the throat of an ageing rider, dyeing his white beard red as the blood gushed out over his chest. He sensed a looming presence to his left and turned with his shield to meet the jabbing spear point of another horseman. The man’s thrust lacked the momentum of a full charge, though, and was easily brushed aside as Eperitus’s spear simultaneously found his attacker’s upper arm, tearing through the unprotected muscle. Dropping his weapon with a cry of pain, the Trojan flicked back his heels and sent his mount galloping out of the melee and away to safety across the plain.

  Others were not so fortunate. The ruin of dead horses and riders was all about, but the worst of the destruction was piled around Neoptolemus. Standing amid the corpses of men and beasts, he dealt out death with a speed and ferocity that reminded Eperitus of Achilles. He wielded the great shield as if it were a wooden toy, parrying every blow that his attackers dared aim at him, while his sword found their flesh again and again until it was running with gore. Then, as Eperitus watched in silent admiration, someone pointed at the god-made armour that had so awed and terrified the Trojans in earlier battles. A cry of dismay went up and Neoptolemus’s enemies fell back, leaving a ring of annihilation around him. The shout was repeated, spreading quickly through the hundreds of closely packed horsemen, and though they outnumbered their foes several times over they began to withdraw from the fight, some of the horses rearing and flailing the air in panic as they retreated. The shouts were in the Trojan tongue, but Eperitus understood them and smiled.

  ‘Achilles! Achilles has returned from the dead!’

  Now the mauled cavalry were streaming away, fleeing in horror at the return of the man they feared more than any other – a man who had seemingly defeated death itself and come back from the halls of Hades. The infantry and archers that still seethed about the walls like boiling water now glanced uncertainly over their shoulders, seeing hundreds of horsemen break and flee with the name of Achilles on their lips. And then, out of the dust of battle strode the very image of the dread warrior, his armour gleaming as he tugged his spear from the chest of one of his victims. A line of warriors followed in his wake, their number exaggerated by fear and the swirling dust, so that th
e Trojans began to feel uncertain of the victory that for a moment they thought they had won. All this Eperitus could see in the faces that were now turned towards them, and in an instant he understood the value of Neoptolemus – this second Achilles – and why he would be so important to the final destruction of Troy.

  But they had gained only a minor success, temporarily driving away a company of cavalry and dinting the confidence of their enemies; the greater battle was far from over. As the rear ranks of the Trojan foot soldiers turned their shields, spears and bows towards the newcomers, a second unit of cavalry began forming up to charge. Eperitus glanced across at Odysseus, flanked on either side by Polites, Eurybates and Omeros, their spears tipped with dark blood. The king caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow in typically understated fashion at their dilemma. As Neoptolemus saw the forces gathering against them he laughed aloud, his veins flowing with reckless confidence, as if he had not only inherited his father’s armour but his indestructibility also. Levelling his great ash spear above his shoulder, he cast it at the line of cavalry and plucked a rider from his mount, sending him tumbling to his ruin in the dust.

  A shout of anger erupted from the Trojans. A single horseman burst from the mass of beasts and men and galloped at the lone figure of Neoptolemus, a long spear couched beneath his arm and aimed at the warrior’s chest. Eperitus saw him and cursed: it was Apheidas. For a moment he was at a loss, wanting to see his father dead and yet not by the hand of Neoptolemus, or anyone other than himself. The Trojan cavalry were charging in the wake of their commander and Eperitus heard the voice of Diomedes calling for his men to close ranks. On the walls, Trojans and Greeks cried out the name of Achilles – the former in dismay and the latter as a rallying cry – and the fighting broke out again with renewed vigour. Then, as Eperitus seized his spear and resolved to run out to face his father, Odysseus grabbed him and pulled him back. Eperitus tried to release himself, but the king held him tight and pressed the whiskers of his beard close to his ear, so that he would be heard over the din of battle.

  ‘It’s too late,’ he said, guessing what was on his captain’s mind. ‘Run out there now and you’ll be killed for certain. All you can do is ask the gods to save him for you, if that’s what you want.’

  Eperitus watched Apheidas galloping down on Neoptolemus, the wind trailing his hair and cloak behind him, and knew Odysseus spoke the truth. With a bitter scowl, he called on Athena to protect the man whose death he had craved all his adult life, promising her the sacrifice of an unblemished lamb if she saved him from Achilles’s son. No sooner had he spat the words from his mouth than the terrifying hum of hundreds of bowstrings filled the air. The Greeks instinctively ducked behind their shields, but their caution was unnecessary: the Trojan archers had loosed their arrows at the reincarnation of Achilles, whose unexpected appearance had filled them with dread and a determination to send him back to the Underworld. The murderous shafts poured towards the splendidly armoured figure, forcing Apheidas to break off his charge and steer his mount away from the fall of shot. Neoptolemus crouched low behind his shield, which no earthly arrow could pierce, then rose to his feet again in defiance of the archers and the fast-approaching cavalry. An instant later, he was swallowed up by the wall of charging horses.

  Apheidas – still ignorant of his son’s presence – now sent his black stallion galloping towards the knot of enemy spearmen. The rest of his command followed, intent on wiping the small band of Greeks out of existence. While the Argives and Ithacans instinctively closed ranks to form a circular buttress against the fast-approaching cavalry, Eperitus rushed out to meet his father, determined to avenge the deaths of King Pandion and Arceisius. More than ever now he regretted that the spear of Ares had been left back in Pelops’s tomb. Its unerring accuracy would have brought Apheidas down in the dust, even at that distance, but Agamemnon had given strict orders that his ancestor’s crypt was not to be plundered. And so Eperitus pulled his spear behind his shoulder, aimed at his father’s chest and waited for him to come nearer.

  The second volley of arrows hit the Greeks with a silent whisper. Diomedes and Odysseus had shouted warnings, but Eperitus – aware of nothing but the charging figure of his father – did not realise his danger until the bronze tip of an arrow tore into the muscle of his right thigh. It was as if his leg had been knocked from beneath him by a giant hammer, toppling him backwards so that his armoured body met the ground with a thud. He lay there like a stricken titan, momentarily paralysed by the pain of his wound and the approach of unconsciousness. His vision began to fade, like a funnel into which a dark liquid was being poured, and he was dimly aware of the thunder of hooves rising up through the ground and into his ribs. There was a mingled odour of dust, sweat and horses, too, and he knew he only had moments now to live.

  Then a strong hand seized the back of his breastplate – the thick knuckles digging into the nape of his neck – and began dragging him at speed through the long grass. His vision cleared again, and he almost shouted in terror as he saw the Trojan cavalry bearing down on him less than a spear’s cast away, their well-bred mounts steaming and snorting as their riders drove them madly on into battle. More hands were hooked beneath Eperitus’s shoulders and he was hauled rapidly through a gap in the Greek line, before being dropped hastily into the grass. He caught a brief sight of Eurybates and Omeros standing over him, and then Polites – whose vast strength had pulled him to safety – before the Ithacans were turning and rejoining the double-ranked ring of Argives, ready to meet the Trojan onslaught.

  Grimacing with pain, Eperitus drew himself up on one elbow and placed a hand on the sword slung beneath his left arm. The Greeks had one hope if they were to survive the charge – to stand firm and not flee, whatever their impulses might scream at them to do. It was rare that a horse would ride into an unbroken barrier of shields and spears; instead, its instincts would drive it around the sides with the rest of the herd, losing the impact of the charge and compelling its rider to attack his enemy side-on. But if one man in the shield wall lost his courage and ran, the gap he left would be like an open gate, inviting the cavalry to surge in and tear the Greeks apart from within. Eperitus had seen it happen on many occasions, and the memory of those massacres made him tense as the din of hooves reached its climax.

  The Greeks held their nerve. The vast body of horses rushed past and around them, accompanied by the shouts and curses of their riders. A spear thudded into the ground beside Eperitus and he felt a body crash down behind him, though whether Greek or Trojan he could not tell in the confusion. A mounted warrior appeared, framed in the circle of blue sky above the heads of Omeros and Polites, but Eurybates pierced his throat with his spear. Suddenly there were horsemen on every side, hacking at the shields and spear points of the Greeks. The clang of bronze filled the air and for a while Eperitus feared his comrades would be overwhelmed by the sheer number of Trojans. But the horsemen were disadvantaged by having to present their unshielded flanks to the Greeks in order to wield their spears and swords, and many were brought down. After a brief but fierce fight, Eperitus heard the unmistakeable voice of his father calling out from behind them. The Trojans began to pull away.

  Now a shadow fell across him and he looked up to see the outline of Odysseus, black against the slowly rising sun. He knelt down without a word and inspected his friend’s leg. The arrow was still buried in the muscle at the back of his thigh, and Odysseus probed the area gently with his fingertips, causing Eperitus to wince.

  ‘Despite your best efforts to kill yourself,’ the king commented, still studiously examining the wound, ‘it seems the gods have taken mercy on you. The arrow appears to have missed the bone and the main arteries, but we’re in the middle of a battle and we can’t just leave it in there.’

  ‘What about the horsemen?’

  ‘They’ve more important things than us to worry about, now. The Greeks have fought their way back out of the gates and are counter-attacking, led by Agamemnon and Menelaus.’


  ‘And my father?’

  Odysseus took out his dagger and sliced the flight from the back of the arrow, before cutting off a strip of cloth from a dead man’s cloak. He called to Polites and nodded towards Eperitus. Then, as Polites pinned Eperitus’s arms irresistibly to his sides, Odysseus seized the shaft of the arrow and pushed it through the other side of his thigh. Eperitus cried out as a surge of fresh pain racked his body, and then blackness took him. He was woken again by the slap of cold water on his face and the sight of Odysseus holding the bloodied dart before his eyes. Polites was busily wrapping the strip of cloth about his thigh.

  ‘It would have caused more damage pulling it out,’ Odysseus said apologetically, tapping the barbed arrowhead with his finger. ‘And now we have to get that wound cleaned and treated, before it gets infected. Can you ride a horse?’

  As he spoke, Eurybates appeared leading a tall brown mare, a survivor of the Trojan cavalry charge. Its neck was crimson with blood, but the animal seemed unhurt.

  ‘Yes – and fight from it, too,’ Eperitus answered, sitting up with a grimace. ‘Where’re my spear and shield?’

  ‘We’ll find them for you, when the battle’s over,’ Odysseus said. ‘First you need to get into the camp and have that leg properly cared for.’

  Polites lifted him easily onto the back of the horse and passed him the reins. Looking quickly about, Eperitus could see the Argives had lost a few men to the attack but were standing firm beneath the command of Diomedes. Meanwhile, the battle around the walls of the camp had grown in fury. The parapet had been cleansed of Trojans and was now manned by Greek archers – led by Philoctetes – who were exchanging fire with the Trojan skirmishers on the plain below. Between them, the Greeks under Agamemnon and Menelaus had temporarily regained the gates, but had been pushed back by the cavalry while Eurypylus and Deiphobus – two figures in flashing armour at the forefront of the Trojan army – rallied their spearmen for another attack. Apheidas was nowhere to be seen, but to Eperitus’s amazement he saw a figure rise from a pile of dead horses and men further back on the battlefield. He was covered in blood and dust, and staggered drunkenly as he searched for something among the bodies around him, but the red plume of his helmet and the gleam of his great shield – despite its covering of filth and gore – put the man’s identity beyond doubt. Somehow Neoptolemus had survived the wall of Trojan cavalry. He plucked his father’s great ash spear from the body of a dead horse and turned to face the struggle before the walls. As he did so, a soldier on the battlements spotted him and called out the name of Achilles. Others joined in the cry and the spearmen under Eurypylus and Deiphobus looked over their shoulders in awe, unable to believe that the man who had struck fear into their hearts earlier had risen yet again from the dead.