The Armour of Achilles (42 page)
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 Great 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.
T
HE
D
EBATE
T
hetis 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?’
Eperitus’s eyes widened in disbelief as the king spoke, though his growing anger was not without concern at the strange shift in his friend’s character.
‘Listen to yourself, Odysseus! Can this really be
you
speaking? You know the armour should go to Ajax, and as for what Achilles said—’
Odysseus held up a finger.
‘Enough, Eperitus. I’m going to my hut to prepare and I’m taking Omeros and Eurylochus with me.
You
are to stay here and keep a close eye on the armour – I don’t trust that oaf Ajax not to come and take it while I’m gone. But listen, old friend,’ he added, softening his tone and putting his hands on Eperitus’s shoulders. ‘I’m serious about winning this debate, and I want you to witness for me. Can I count on you?’
Eperitus’s eyes narrowed.
‘You know I’ll always serve your best interests,’ he answered.
When Odysseus returned it was to find Ajax already there, standing Titan-like before the ranks of seated warriors with Teucer and Little Ajax standing at his shoulders. His massive fists were balled up on his hips and he looked for every man on the beach as if the armour were already his. Odysseus entered the circle of benches where the Council of Kings was ready to sit in judgment, wearing a plain tunic and the faded purple cloak Penelope had given him at their parting on Ithaca ten years before. He had always scorned fine clothes and decorative armour in a debate, feeling they were the cheap tricks of lesser men, hoping to awe their audience with a show of wealth and power, rather than winning them over by the skill of their argument.
The two warriors stood almost shoulder to shoulder before the King of Men, who kept them waiting – along with the council and the rest of the army – while he spoke in low tones with Nestor and Menelaus. Ajax crossed his hands over the small of his back and looked at Odysseus from the corner of his eye.
‘What are you hoping to gain by this, Odysseus?’ he whispered. ‘If you wanted something from me, you know all you needed to do was ask. But challenging my claim—’
‘I have a right to the armour, too.’
‘Is it because I beat you in the discus throw? Or are you just trying to antagonize me? Because if you are, you’re succeeding. But if you drop your claim now I’ll think none the worse of you.’
Odysseus looked up at the towering form of Ajax, catching his fierce eye.
‘I don’t have that choice, Ajax. And if I lose your friendship over this, then I’m sorry.’
Ajax glared back at him, then began rocking on his heels, making his impatience obvious to Agamemnon as he fidgeted and blew through his teeth. That he was the greatest fighter in the whole Greek alliance could no longer be disputed since the death of Achilles, and if the King of Men’s decision was to be based on fighting prowess alone then the victory would doubtless be his. But Odysseus had two assets that Ajax had not – his shrewd intelligence and his voice. The eventual owner of Achilles’s armour would not be decided in battle, but by argument and counterargument. And as the bloated sun shimmered above the distant edge of the ocean, the contest was wide open.
Finally, the whispered discussion between the three kings ended and Agamemnon turned to Ajax and Odysseus. Sliding his left ankle up on to his right knee, he leaned back and placed a thoughtful finger to his lips.
‘Of all the men in this army,’ he began, ‘there are few I rely on for counsel and strength in battle as much as you two. But only one of you can win this debate and claim the armour of Achilles; the loser, I fear, will regard the other with jealousy and even animosity. For it
is
a glorious prize, the likes of which no man has been tempted with for many generations. So, for the sake of our greater goal – the defeat and sack of Troy – I ask you to relinquish your claims and forsake this divisive contest before it begins.’
‘I will not surrender my right to the armour,’ Ajax announced, glaring at the King of Men. ‘Achilles was my cousin. I was as close a kinsman to him as any here, and that alone would raise my claim above all others.’ He glanced sidelong at Odysseus, then, unclasping his hands from behind his back, stepped forward and punched a finger towards Agamemnon. ‘But I make no blood claim on his armour. I don’t
need
to. Thetis said it should be awarded to the most courageous of the Greeks who fought before the Scaean Gate, and that man is me!’
There was a rumble of approval from the seated ranks of the army, but Odysseus showed no sign of doubt or fear. Agamemnon sighed and leaned back in his gold-plated throne.
‘And what evidence do you have to back your statement?’ he asked in a calm voice.
‘What
evidence
?’ Ajax exclaimed. He turned and looked at the faces of the seated kings and leaders. ‘What evidence, he asks. Well, perhaps, my lord, you were too far back in the ranks to notice that
I
have been in the front line of every battle we have fought since arriving in this accursed land. I can’t even begin to count the Trojans I’ve killed, and if I listed the names of the noblemen who’ve fallen to my spear then we would be here until long after the moon has risen.
‘But I
know
you were there, my lord Agamemnon, when I fought Hector to a standstill on the slopes above the Scamander. As was Odysseus, who said nothing when Hector challenged us to offer up a champion. No, it was left to me on that occasion. And where were you when the Trojans breached the walls and attacked the ships, Odysseus? I didn’t see you when I was fighting them off from the prows of the galleys, because
you
were skulking in Agamemnon’s tent with a mere flesh wound! Am I wrong?’
Odysseus looked briefly down at his feet as he composed himself, then placed his hands carefully on his hips and shook his head.
‘You know you’re wrong, Ajax. We all do. I was neither skulking, nor was it just a flesh wound that kept me from the struggle. While you were fighting a losing battle, hoping that brawn alone could hold back the victorious Trojans, I was convincing Patroclus to put on Achilles’s armour and lead the Myrmidons into the attack. While your muscles were saving a single galley, my brains were saving the whole army.’
He spoke calmly, without anger or mockery, and in a tone that convinced every listener of the truth of what he was saying. There were nods and murmurs among the crowd of onlookers as men accepted his argument, only surprised they had not realized it before.
‘I’ve done my fair share of fighting, too,’ Odysseus continued. ‘I’ve been in as many battles as you have, Ajax, and more. Where were you when Achilles and I captured Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe, for instance?’ Ajax opened his mouth to protest, but Odysseus held up a finger to silence him. ‘Save your objections; I don’t deny you’ve killed more Trojans than I have and could probably recount each of their names one after another until the cock crows. But there’s much more to war than blind savagery, and not least for those of us who have the privilege of command.
We
must be in the forefront of every battle or risk losing the respect of our men, but we must also have an eye on the greater goals. And in that I surpass you, Ajax. What were you doing when the army was close to mutiny during the winter months? Well, while you practised your discus throwing with Achilles, I was suggesting the attacks on Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe to keep the army busy and to bring in some much-needed loot, not to mention cutting Troy’s supplies from the south. And I was the one who thought up a way to defeat the Amazons. Without me, Ajax, the best men in Greece – yourself included – would have been dead on the plains with poisoned arrows peppering their rotting corpses, while the rest of the army sailed back home in defeat.’
Ajax spat on the sand.
‘Words and tricks – is that all you have to boast of, Odysseus? When all’s said and done, a man’s courage and honour is determined by his performance in battle;
courage
is the measure by which Achilles’s armour will be awarded, and in that
I
surpass
you
! Was it intelligence and cunning that carried the body of Achilles out of the clutches of the Trojans and all the way back here, in spite of their countless spears and arrows? Of course not – it was the strength and bravery of Ajax, son of Telamon!’
His words were greeted by a rumble of approval from the army crowded about the circle of benches.
‘And was it my intelligence and cunning that covered your back as you carried Achilles?’ Odysseus replied, turning to look his opponent in the eye. ‘No, it was my courage and skill that saved you, Ajax. Without me you wouldn’t even have reached the fords of the Scamander. My bravery is a match for yours and you know it!’
‘By Ares’s sword!’ Ajax snapped. ‘If you hadn’t have been there, Odysseus, I would have fought the Trojans with one hand and dragged Achilles’s body back to the ships with the other.’
‘The armour should be given to Ajax!’ Little Ajax shouted, raising his arms in the air. ‘Odysseus is nothing but a clever fraud. Award the armour to Ajax!’
Suddenly knots of men stood and began to cheer and shout Ajax’s name. Odysseus recognized them as a mixture of Locrians and Ajax’s own men, who had been deliberately spread out among the army. But they were quickly joined by others and soon almost every man was on his feet and roaring approval for Ajax. At last the chanting died away as the heralds persuaded and cajoled the dense ranks to sit back down in the sand.
‘You’ve heard what Odysseus and I have to say, my lord,’ Ajax said, turning to Agamemnon with a triumphant smile. ‘And you’ve heard what the army thinks. Now it’s time to make your decision—’
‘Not quite,’ Odysseus interrupted. ‘There’s one other opinion that should be heard, an opinion more important than either mine, Ajax’s, or even that of the whole army.’
Agamemnon narrowed his eyes at Odysseus, then slowly scanned the circle of benches. Complete silence had fallen as the vast audience waited in expectation.
‘Whose?’ Agamemnon asked after no one else had stepped forward.
‘The opinion of Achilles himself.’
‘Achilles?’ exclaimed Ajax. ‘What nonsense is this? Can you conjure up the dead now, Odysseus?’
Odysseus took a step closer to Agamemnon.
‘When Achilles fell, Eperitus and I were the first to reach him. I took his head in my lap and tried to comfort him as the fear of death settled upon him. Then he clutched at me and asked that I hear his final words. I bent my ear to his mouth.’
The faces of the council were rapt in awe as Odysseus paused for effect, each of them clearly desperate to know what Achilles’s final words had been. Even Ajax was staring wide-eyed and dumbfounded as Odysseus brushed away a dramatic tear. Words and tricks, Ajax had sneered; but words and tricks were going to steal the armour of Achilles from his fingertips. The king of Ithaca looked up and scanned the faces of the waiting audience.
‘He pulled me near with the last of his strength and whispered these words: “To you, Odysseus, I bequeath my glorious armour, to be worn honourably as a token of my gratitude.” As Athena is my witness, I swear this was his last wish. But don’t take my word for it. Ask Eperitus.’