The Song of Troy (43 page)

I felt a tap on my arm: a herald from Agamemnon.

‘The High King requires to know why the fighting’s stopped hereabouts, King Nestor.’

‘I’ve agreed to a temporary truce. Look for yourself, my man! Would you fight if that was going on in your section?’

He stared. ‘I recognise Prince Ajax, but who opposes him?’

‘Go and tell the High King that Ajax and Hektor fight to the death.’

The messenger slipped away, enabling me to fix my attention on the duel again. Both men still hacked and tilted furiously – how long had they been at it now? I didn’t need to shade my eyes as I looked up at the dull yellow ball of the dusty sun to find it westering well and truly, almost down to the horizon. By Ares, what stamina!

Agamemnon pulled his car in beside me.

‘Can you be spared from the command, sire?’

‘Odysseus holds for me. Gods! How long have they been at it, Nestor?’

‘For about an eighth part of the afternoon.’

‘They’ll have to end soon. The sun’s setting.’

‘Incredible, isn’t it?’

‘You called a truce?’

‘The men weren’t willing to fight. Nor was I. How goes it elsewhere?’

‘More than holding our own, though we’re badly outnumbered. Diomedes has been a titan all day. He killed the trucebreaker Pandaros and got away with the armour under Hektor’s very nose. Ah! There’s Aineas, I see. No wonder
he
wanted a truce! Diomedes caught him on the shoulder with a spear and thinks he did some damage.’

‘So that’s why he came in from the wing.’

‘The Dardanian is the shrewdest man Priam possesses. But he always looks after himself first, so the stories say.’

‘How’s Menelaos? Did the arrow hit anything vital?’

‘No. Machaon bound him up and sent him back to battle.’

‘He put up a very nice show.’

‘Surprised you, didn’t he?’

The horn of darkness wound its long, dismal call above the dust and clamour of the field. Men laid down their arms and sobbed for breath. Shields were dropped and swords clumsily sheathed, but Hektor and Ajax fought on. In the end night defeated them; they could hardly see their weapons in front of them when I got down from my car and parted them.

‘It’s too dark to see, my lions. I declare a draw, so put away your swords.’

Hektor took off his helmet with a shaking hand. ‘I confess I’m not sorry for an end. I’m almost done.’

Ajax gave his shield to Teukros, whose knees buckled under its weight. ‘I’m done too.’

‘You’re a great man, Ajax,’ said Hektor, holding out his right arm.

Ajax twined his fingers about the Trojan’s wrist, smiling. ‘I can say the same of you, Hektor.’

‘If they rate Achilles better than you, I can’t see why. Here, take my sword!’ He thrust it forward impulsively.

Ajax looked down at the blade with unfeigned pleasure, then hefted it in his hand. ‘Henceforth I’ll always use it in battle. In return, I offer you my baldric. My father said his father said he had it from his father, who was Immortal Zeus himself.’ He ducked his head and slipped the treasured relic off; of brilliant purple leather chased with a design in gold, it was a rare specimen.

‘I’ll wear it in place of my own,’ said Hektor, delighted.

I watched the gratification, the mutual liking and respect they had gained for each other under such terrible circumstances. Then the icy wings of a premonition froze my mind: that exchange of property was ill-omened.

We camped where we were that night, under the walls of Troy, with Hektor’s army between us and the gaping Skaian Gate. The campfires were lit, the cauldrons hung above them on bars; slaves carried round great trays of barley bread and meat, and watered wine flowed. For a while I watched the sight of a myriad torches flickering in and out of the Skaian Gate as Trojan slaves went to and fro ministering to Hektor’s army, then I went to eat with Agamemnon and the rest about a fire in the middle of our men. As I stepped into the light their tired faces turned to greet me, and I saw the hollowness which always lies heavy on a man after a hard-fought battle.

‘We haven’t advanced a finger’s breadth,’ I said to Odysseus.

‘Nor have they,’ he said tranquilly, chewing on a strip of boiled pork.

‘How many men have we lost?’ asked Idomeneus.

‘About the same number as Hektor, a few less, perhaps,’ said Odysseus. ‘Not enough to tip the balance either way.’

‘Tomorrow should tell, then,’ said Meriones, yawning.

Agamemnon yawned. ‘Yes, tomorrow.’

There was little further conversation. Bodies ached and smarted, lids drooped, bellies were full. Time to roll into furs around the fire. I blinked across the flames, looking at the many hundreds of little lights dotted through the plain, each one a source of comfort and safety in the dark night all about us. Smoke plumed towards the stars, the smoke of ten thousand campfires under the walls of Troy. I lay back and watched those stars wax and wane in the manmade fog until they faded away into Sleep, the Bringer of Mind’s Darkness.

The second day was not like the first. No truces broke the slaughter, no duels held our attention, no gallant acts of heroism lifted the struggle above the plane of men. The work was grim and sourly tenacious. My bones cried for rest, my eyes were blinded by the tears every man must weep when he sees a son die. Antilochos wept for his brother, then demanded to take his place in the line. So I put another Pylian to drive my car.

Impossible to catch, as deadly as Ares himself, Hektor was in his element, up and down the field, harrying his troops in a brazen voice which gave no quarter and would never stoop to ask for quarter. Ajax had no time to chase him; Hektor brought the full force of the Royal Guard to bear on him and Diomedes, shackling his two most dangerous foes to one spot by sheer weight of numbers. Where Hektor cast his spear a man was sure to die: he was as good as Achilles. If a gap showed in our line he shoved his soldiers into it, then once he had them in he kept feeding more and more of them in, like a tree cutter driving the thin end of the wedge deeper and deeper into a forest giant.

Oh, the grief! The cruelty, the pain! I couldn’t see for the tears when another of my sons fell, his bowels torn out on a lance Aineas threw. Not a moment later Antilochos barely escaped losing his head under a sword – not this one! Please, merciful Here, almighty Zeus, spare me Antilochos!

Every so often heralds came to tell me how other parts of the field were going; I gave thanks that at least our leaders were unscathed. Yet perhaps because our men were tired, or because we lacked the fifteen thousand Thessalians Achilles held out of the battle, or for some other more obscure reason, we began to lose ground. Slowly and imperceptibly the venue moved further and further away from the walls of Troy, closer and closer to our own defence wall. I found myself in the very front ranks, my driver sobbing in rage as our team stepped over their tangled traces and began to rear.

Hektor came down upon us; I called frantically for help as his chariot loomed through the crush. Luck was with me. Diomedes and Odysseus had somehow got into the centre of our van, their men next to mine. Diomedes didn’t attempt to fight Hektor himself; he concentrated instead on Hektor’s driver, not his usual man and definitely not as experienced. He cast his spear and took the fellow straight back on his heels, dead and stretching the reins until the horses, feeling their bits, began to plunge. With some help from Odysseus we got away safely while Hektor spat curses and sawed through his reins with a knife.

I tried to rally my section of the line, but it was hopeless. Fear was in the wind and talk of ill omens was spreading. None of us could delude ourselves any longer – we were in full retreat. Realising it, Hektor threw the rest of his reserve lines forward with a shriek of triumph.

Odysseus saved the day. He leaped into a vacant chariot – where was his? – and turned the Boiotians when they began to bolt, swung them round to face the enemy and then forced them to give ground quietly and in perfect order. Agamemnon followed his example immediately; what had threatened to become a debacle was at least accomplished with a minimum of loss and without the risk of rout. Diomedes charged his Argives into the teeth of the advancing Trojans, and I followed him with Idomeneus, Eurypylos, Ajax and all their men.

We had drawn our flanks up into the van; the army had turned into a tight droplet formation with its slender tail facing Hektor and the bulk of our men behind us, falling back.

Teukros kept to his nook behind his brother’s shield, his arrows flying steadily, always accurately. Hektor was hovering; Teukros saw him and grinned as he nocked another arrow. But Hektor was too wily to fall from an arrow he was surely expecting in Ajax’s neighbourhood. One after the other, Hektor caught the arrows on his shield, which infuriated Teukros into making a mistake. He stepped out from behind his brother’s shield. Hektor was waiting for him. His spears were long gone, but he had found a rock, and flung it in a cast worthy of a spear. It struck Teukros on the right shoulder, and down he went like a bull at a sacrifice. Too beset to notice, Ajax went on fighting. Ah, there! My cry of relief was echoed in a dozen throats when Teukros’s head showed above the carnage on the ground and he began to crawl across the dead and wounded to go to earth with Ajax. But now he was just surplus baggage his brother had to lug; the Trojans charged.

I cast my eyes desperately to the rear to see how far we were from our own wall, and gasped; our back lines were already streaming across the causeways.

Odysseus and Agamemnon between them kept our army calm. The retreat was concluded without much loss of life, and we fled behind our wall to the refuge of our stone city. Too dark for Hektor to follow. We left them on the far bank of our ditch and palisade, jeering and yapping at our tails.

25

NARRATED BY

Odysseus

It wasn’t a very cheerful gathering that night in Agamemnon’s house; we just sat, beginning the wearisome business of getting our strength back in order to endure tomorrow. My head ached, my throat was raw from yelling war cries, my sides were rubbed clean of skin where my cuirass had chafed despite the padded shift underneath. All of us sported minor wounds – grazes, punctures, gashes, cuts – and sleep screamed in us.

‘A shocking reverse,’ Agamemnon said into the pit of exhausted silence. ‘Shocking, Odysseus.’

Diomedes sprang to my defence. ‘Just as Odysseus predicted!’

Nestor nodded confirmation. Poor old man. For once he did look his age, and little wonder. He had lost two sons on the field. Voice reedy, he said, ‘Don’t despair yet, Agamemnon. Our time will come. And be the sweeter for today’s reverses.’

‘I know, I know!’ Agamemnon cried.

‘Someone had better go and report to Achilles,’ Nestor said in an undertone audible only to those of us in on the plot. ‘He’s with us, but if he’s not kept informed he may move prematurely.’

Agamemnon glared at me balefully. ‘Odysseus, it’s your idea.
You
see Achilles.’

I plodded off wearily. To send me down the line of houses to its very end was Agamemnon’s way of getting back at me. Yet while I walked, at peace and unmolested, strength began to creep into me again. I felt more rested for the little additional exertion than I would have after a full night’s sleep. Since any who saw me would assume after the day’s reverses that Agamemnon was sending me to plead with Achilles, I passed openly through the Myrmidon gate to find the Myrmidons and other Thessalians sitting about dolefully, avid to fight, rendered impotent.

Achilles was in his house warming his hands at a tripod of fire, looking as worn and nervy as any of us who had fought for two days. Patrokles sat opposite him, face stony. I suppose that didn’t really surprise me, given the advent of Brise. The relationship between Diomedes and me was as friendly as it was sensuous, a kind of expedience both of us found immensely pleasing. But if either of us fancied a woman, well and good. No disaster, no sense of betrayal. Patrokles
loved,
and had thought himself safe, permanently free of rivals. Whereas Achilles, like all men who burn for things other than the flesh, had not truly committed himself. Exclusively a man for men, Patrokles thought himself cruelly wronged. Poor fellow, he
loved.

‘What brings you?’ Achilles demanded sourly. ‘Patrokles, find food and wine for the King.’

Sighing gratefully, I sat down in a big chair and waited for Patrokles to depart.

‘I hear things went badly,’ said Achilles then.

‘As expected, don’t forget that,’ I answered. ‘Hektor kept the Trojans hard at it, and Agamemnon couldn’t do the same with our men. The retreat began at about the same moment as the grumbling – the omens were all against us, the sky was thick with eagles flying on the left hand, a gold light bathed the Trojan Citadel, and so forth. Omen talk is always fatal. So we fell back until Agamemnon had to pull us inside the fortifications for the night.’

‘I hear Ajax met Hektor yesterday.’

‘Yes, they duelled for over an eighth part of the afternoon without a conclusion. You’ve nothing to worry about there, my friend. Hektor belongs to you.’

‘But men are dying needlessly, Odysseus! Let me come out tomorrow, please!’

‘No,’ I said harshly. ‘Not until the army is in immediate danger of annihilation, or the ships begin to burn because Hektor breaks into our camp. Even then you’ll tell Patrokles to lead your troops – you mustn’t lead them yourself.’ I stared at him sternly. ‘Agamemnon has your oath on it, Achilles.’

‘Rest assured, Odysseus, that I break no oaths.’

He bowed his head then and lapsed into silence. When Patrokles came back we were sitting thus, Achilles hunched over, I staring dreamily at his head of golden hair. Patrokles directed the servants to put the food and wine on the table, then stood like a pillar of ice. Achilles glanced at him briefly, then at me.

‘Tell Agamemnon I refuse to go back on my word,’ Achilles said to me in a formal voice. ‘Tell him to find someone else to extricate him from this mess. Or else return Brise.’