The Armour of Achilles (19 page)
‘You’re wearing yourself out, old man,’ he taunted. ‘Your fear is undoing you.’
Menelaus growled in reply and with terrifying speed dashed Paris’s sword arm aside and brought his weapon down on to the crown of his bronze helmet. It hit the socket from which his white horsehair plume streamed, snapping the blade in two. Paris fell to his knees, his head pounding with the blow that should have killed him. A trickle of blood seeped out from beneath the rim of the helmet and ran down his left temple. Then, realizing the gods had saved him, he looked up at Menelaus’s shocked face and laughed out loud with a mixture of relief and joy. Menelaus stared incredulously at the broken blade in his hand, then with a howl of frustration tossed it aside and launched himself on his enemy. The two men threw their arms around each other, rolling down the slope as they fought. One moment, Menelaus was on top, trying to close his large fingers round Paris’s throat, then Paris gained the advantage, throwing the Spartan bodily aside and raining punches down upon him. Above and below them the armies of Greece and Troy were now on their feet, shouting at the tops of their voices for one champion or the other, filling the valley with their urgent voices. Then Menelaus, realizing Paris was his match in strength and sensing the younger man’s stamina might outlast his own, thrust his knee into Paris’s groin, forcing him to roll aside in pain. With a roar of triumph, the Spartan leapt to his feet and seized the Trojan’s helmet by its plume, dragging him back up the slope towards his equally jubilant comrades. Paris, his face purpling as the knotted lace beneath his chin cut into his neck, wrapped his hands around Menelaus’s wrists in a desperate attempt to prise his fingers from the plume. Suddenly, the lace snapped and the helmet came away in Menelaus’s hands.
Paris rolled aside, choking for air and rubbing the scored flesh of his throat. Menelaus tossed the helmet towards the Locrian archers and ran at his enemy. Forgetting his pain, Paris leapt forward and drove his head into Menelaus’s abdomen, punching the air from his body and knocking him back to the ground. But as Paris was about to leap on the Spartan once more, he saw Menelaus’s second spear from the corner of his right eye, buried point-down in the earth. He ran to it and plucked it from the ground, turning with an exultant grin towards Menelaus.
‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘Helen is mine and your brother’s army will have to leave these shores for ever. But you’re a better man than I thought, Menelaus, and so I’ll send your spirit down to Hades with honour.’
Menelaus backed away slowly, looking for the sword that Paris had dropped when they had wrestled on the slope earlier. It was nowhere to be seen but, as he glanced behind himself he saw Paris’s second spear standing upright in the earth halfway towards the Trojan lines. Paris saw it at the same moment and, realizing Menelaus’s intention, raced his enemy down the slope towards it. Menelaus reached the spear first, snatching it up in both hands and spinning round just in time to parry the thrust aimed at his stomach. As Menelaus turned the point aside, Paris swung the shaft of the spear with both hands into his forehead, stunning him and knocking him to the ground. But if the gods had shattered Menelaus’s sword and broken the strap of Paris’s helmet, now they turned their favour on the Spartan. As Paris steadied a foot on a boulder and made ready to plunge his spear into Menelaus’s gut, an agonizing burst of pain seared through his brain. The spear dropped from his grip and he clutched both hands to the wound on his head, stumbling beneath the intense agony. Menelaus immediately kicked Paris’s legs from under him and jumped to his feet, holding the point of his weapon against the Trojan’s throat.
‘Now whose victory is it?’ he crowed, triumphantly. ‘You’ve fought well, Paris, though you’re an oath-breaker and a wife-stealer, but the gods have finally decided between us. Helen is – and always
was
– mine.’
Apheidas had been watching the battle from among the ranks of Zeleian spearmen. Ever since Paris had decided to face Menelaus in single combat he had positioned himself next to Pandarus – the most renowned archer in all the armies of Troy after Paris himself – and persuaded him to ready his gold-tipped bow. He knew that if Paris won, Agamemnon would find a way to break his oath, but that if Menelaus gained the victory, and Helen was returned to him the King of Men would be unable to persuade the Greeks to continue the war. In which case Eperitus would return to Greece and the plans Apheidas had been nurturing for so long would fail. With this in mind, he had informed Pandarus that Hector had no intention of letting Paris die or of giving Helen back to the Greeks, and that he would reward any Trojan who prevented Menelaus from winning. And so, as Apheidas saw Paris stumble, and watched Menelaus gloating over him, he placed his hand on the Zeleian prince’s arm.
‘Now, Pandarus!’ he hissed. ‘Shoot Menelaus and save Paris’s life.’
T
HE
B
ATTLE
B
EGINS
S
hocked silence fell across the two armies. Then a voice cried out and Agamemnon’s chariot burst through the stunned ranks of Greek archers and sped down the slope towards his brother. As Paris crawled back to the safety of the Trojan lines, to be placed in his chariot and rushed back to Troy, the King of Men jumped down and lifted Menelaus’s inert body from the ground. A moment later Talthybius was whipping the horses back up the slope, driving them as quickly as they could go with the weight of the wooden chariot and its three passengers behind them. Trojan arrows peppered the ground around them as they fled, to be answered by the singing bows of the Greeks and the hiss of their missiles as they arced down into the thick mass of enemy archers, sending many crashing down to their deaths.
‘What have I done?’ Agamemnon said, clutching his brother’s great bulk to his chest. ‘Why did I listen to Hector’s false assurances and allow you to fight Paris? Without you this whole expedition will have been for nothing. Now the kings will take their ships back to Greece, leaving Helen to the victorious Trojans while your tomb will stand as a monument to
my
folly. May Zeus open the earth beneath my feet, I am going to become a laughing stock on both sides of the Aegean!’
‘Courage, brother,’ Menelaus said groggily, opening an eye and looking up at Agamemnon. ‘Death won’t find me such an easy victim. My belt and cuirass stopped the force of the arrow, though . . . though it succeeded in piercing my flesh. It was the effort of the fight and . . . and the shock of the wound that overcame me, nothing more.’
‘Zeus’s beard!’ Agamemnon exclaimed, staring at his brother’s pale face as the chariot rolled into the safety of the lines. Then, seized by a sudden urgency, he grabbed Talthybius by the arm. ‘Take him to Machaon at once. Have him apply all his skill to the wound and tell him that if anything happens to my brother I will make his own life forfeit.’
Talthybius gave a shake of the reins and drove the chariot through a channel in the dense ranks of the army, where other chariots were also being driven to the rear as their passengers leapt down and prepared to face the Trojans. Agamemnon turned on his heel as a Locrian screamed and fell heavily beside him, an arrow protruding from his chest. More feathered shafts whistled down among the skirmishers, spilling several to the ground while their comrades returned fire, seemingly ignorant of their own safety.
‘
They’re coming!
’
Agamemnon looked down the slope to where the companies of Troy and her allies were massing. Though the enemy archers were aided by the north wind, the Greeks enjoyed the advantage of the slope and were causing far greater casualties among their counterparts. Soon the Trojan skirmishers would be swept aside, exposing the densely packed spearmen behind to the deadly arrows. Accepting this inevitability, Hector was ordering his heavy infantry up the hill towards the waiting Greeks, and the sight of them as they marched towards him, yelling at the tops of their voices as they were struck by wave after wave of arrows from the Greek archers, filled Agamemnon’s heart with panic. He looked around himself and saw Odysseus and Eperitus nearest, with Menestheus at their side, all three calmly watching the approach of the heavily armoured Trojans.
‘You!’ he bellowed. ‘What do you think you’re doing, standing around like fishwives at a market? Order your men down that hill before I charge you with cowardice in front of the rest of the army!’
Odysseus’s sun-tanned skin flushed red and his brow furrowed as he turned to face the Mycenaean king.
‘There isn’t a man in the whole army more keen to end this war than I am, Agamemnon. I haven’t seen my wife or son in almost ten years, thanks to your ambitions, and my spear is as ready as yours to lay out Trojans in the dust. The only thing keeping us at the top of this slope is good military sense!’
Eperitus saw the confusion, impatience and panic vying together on Agamemnon’s face.
‘By the time they’ve struggled to the top of this slope they’ll have been decimated by our archers, my lord,’ he said, indicating the wall of advancing Trojans with a contemptuous flick of his thumb. ‘And those who are left will have to fight uphill against fresh troops.’
Agamemnon cast another glance down at the approaching enemy, their dense ranks twitching as the clouds of Locrian arrows rained death upon them. And yet his pride told him he was right.
‘Stay here, then,’ he sneered, ‘and we’ll see whose military sense is best.’
He ran on, past the steady ranks of Mycenaeans and Spartans to where Diomedes and Sthenelaus waited at the head of the massed Argives.
‘In the name of all the gods, Diomedes, what are you waiting for? It’s no surprise to see Odysseus hanging back, but
you
claim to be a son of the great Tydeus! If your father were here I wouldn’t need to goad
him
to attack the enemy.’
‘If Tydeus was great, then his son is greater,’ Sthenelaus responded, angrily. ‘You forget, my lord Agamemnon, that Tydeus and my own father, Capaneus, died attacking Thebes. But when Diomedes and I laid siege to the city to avenge their deaths
we
left it in ruins.’
‘Well spoken, Sthenelaus,’ Agamemnon replied. ‘But words count for very little on the battlefield. If you don’t have the stomach to face Hector and his Trojans, then I will lead the attack myself.’
‘I’ll not quarrel with you, Agamemnon, but neither will I be accused of cowardice,’ said Diomedes. ‘If you want me to attack, then give the command, or else stay your tongue and go back to your Mycenaeans.’
‘Of course I want you to attack. And, for all our sakes, do it before they reach the top of the slope and cut us to pieces!’
Turning to the men behind him with a furious look in his eyes, Diomedes raised his spears above his head.
‘Argives!
Advance!
’
The great shout rolled along the top of the ridge and, a moment later, the first ranks of the Argives began to move. There was a pause, as if the whole Greek army was drawing breath, and then a series of commands were barked out. From left to right, the long lines of spearmen closed up and locked their shields together, ready to move down the slope and meet the Trojans head on.
Eperitus slipped his own shield from his back and took its weight on to his left arm. He kissed the tips of his fingers and placed them against the faded image of the deer on the inside, silently praying to the gods and the spirit of Iphigenia. Then he plucked his spears from the ground and looked across at Odysseus. The king nodded sternly before turning to the ranks of spearmen behind.
‘Ithacans!’ he cried. ‘For ten years the Trojans have sat behind the safety of their walls, rarely daring to meet us in battle. But now they’ve emptied the city against us! The moment we’ve been praying for is here, so call on all your courage, ruthlessness and hatred and
fight
! Show no mercy; do not stop killing until every one of them is dead, or you yourselves have been ushered down to Hades. Think of your homes and families and
kill
!’
‘
Kill!
’ the Ithacans echoed with one voice.
The king thrust his spear forward and the line of shields began to advance. All along the ridge the armies of Greece were moving through the screen of archers and down the hill towards the Trojans, who by now were reaching the upper climbs of the slope. Even Eperitus, who had seen many battles, felt awed by the sight of tens of thousands of men marching towards each other, their helmets, shields and breastplates gleaming in the sun, the deadly points of their spears now lowering towards each other. The tramp of their feet beating together was like the heartbeat of the earth itself, while the clatter of hooves behind and on either side of them was like the rushing of waves across a pebble beach. On they marched, relentless, inexorable, and yet not unstoppable; for behind those magnificent walls of leather and bronze were bodies of flesh and blood that in the space of a moment could be torn and broken.
As the gap between the two armies narrowed, orders were shouted in a dozen different languages and dialects as thousands of men drew back their spears and took aim. The Greeks launched the first volley, darkening their air with missiles that arced over the first rank of Trojan shields and into the densely packed ranks behind. Screams followed as socketed bronze tips found exposed necks and faces, or tore through shields and scaled armour to penetrate the soft flesh beneath. Then the Trojans cast their own weapons and a similar chorus of screams followed from the Greek ranks as men were thrown violently back into the dust.
With a furious roar, the two sides lowered their remaining spears and charged. Eperitus held his grandfather’s shield before him and crashed into the hedge of Trojan spears, feeling the sharpened points scrape across the oxhide surface. One missed his exposed right flank by a hand’s breadth. Suddenly walls of flesh and hardened leather closed in from every side and he was locked in a dark, struggling press of men. In desperation, he pushed his spear beneath the circular shield of a Trojan and felt the bronze bite into the unarmoured flesh of the man’s groin, knocking him screaming to the ground. Eperitus did not pause but thrust the raised wooden boss of his shield into the bearded face of an enemy soldier, splitting his nose and toppling him back into the ranks behind. Two more men leapt forward, one on either side, and jabbed at him simultaneously with their spears. He turned the first aside with his shield, while shrinking to his left to let the other plunge past his right hip. With an instinctive thrust, he sank the point of his spear into the neck of one of his attackers and killed him instantly. Then Arceisius appeared – his spear already lost and his sword drawn – and with a backhanded swing he slashed its sharpened edge across the other man’s forehead, sending him spinning out of the battle.
‘Thought you needed some help,’ he said, grinning.
‘You just watch out for yourself,’ Eperitus replied as more Trojans moved to take the places of the men they had killed.
The chaos of battle was raging all around them now. To Eperitus’s right the gigantic form of Polites – his helmet lost and his face spattered with gore – was cutting a swathe through the ranks of Trojans, supported by Antiphus and Eurybates on either side. Even Omeros had worked his way to the front ranks and was duelling with a Trojan spearman, his eyes wide with terror and his young face pale as his opponent thrust at him again and again. Then Arceisius seized Eperitus’s arm and pointed to their left, where a short, heavily built warrior had cut down three Ithacans in easy succession and was now making for Odysseus. The Ithacan king had already struck dead several opponents and was exhorting the Ithacans to greater destruction when he sensed the man’s approach and turned to face him. All around them the fighting broke off as the two sides edged backwards.
‘I am Democoön, son of Priam,’ the Trojan grunted, speaking in his own language. ‘Name yourself, Greek, so I can know whose ghost I’m sending to the Underworld. I want to boast of my victory when I’ve stripped the armour from your corpse.’
‘I am Odysseus, king of Ithaca and son of Laertes, but to you and all other Trojans who stand in my way, my name is Death!’
A moment later his spear was flying through the air towards Democoön, who flung his shield up instinctively and had it torn from his grip by the force of the cast. He replied immediately, but his weapon missed Odysseus and buried itself in the groin of the man behind him, a lad called Leucus who had arrived with the most recent shipment of recruits from Ithaca. He fell forward, groaning in agony as his lifeblood poured out on to the soil of Ilium.
Odysseus plucked the spear from his dead body and, with a shout of fury, ran straight at Democoön. The Trojan only had time to wrap his fingers around the ivory handle of his sword before Odysseus sent the point of his own spear through his temple and out the back of his head, dropping him lifeless to the ground. A moment later, he had seized the corpse by the arm and was dragging him back to the safety of the Ithacan lines, there to strip it of its armour.
With a cheer and renewed fury, the Ithacans charged once more into the Trojan ranks. Undeterred by the loss of their chieftain or the casualties that had already been inflicted on them, the Trojans kept their discipline, filled the gaps that had been made and held their ground stubbornly. Though none could stand for long against the anger of Odysseus, the skill of Eperitus or the brute strength of Polites, they were tenacious men who fought for their homeland and their families, and soon the corpses of both sides were clogging the hotly contested slope. The fighting became so close that Eperitus was forced to abandon his spear and draw his sword from its scabbard, using it to parry the thrusts of enemy weapons or stab down across his opponents’ shield rims and into their exposed throats. The air was now filled with a brown haze of dust, kicked up by countless sandalled feet as they struggled for a grip on the dry earth; it stung eyes and parched throats so that men longed for water and the cries of their struggles were dry and muted. The senses were further stifled by the reek of sweat from thousands of toiling bodies, clogging a man’s nostrils so that only the stench of warm blood could compete against it. Even the ever-present north wind seemed to die away and leave the armies to suffer amidst the stink of their own folly. Worse still was the din of the fighting, a sound that would have drowned even the smithies of Hephaistos, manned day and night by the Cyclopes as they beat out Zeus’s thunderbolts in the fires of Olympus. Its ceaseless clanging deafened men as they fought, so that the survivors were left with the echo of its ringing in their heads for days.