‘Calm down, Menelaos! I never thought they would give her back. What actually happened? Did you see Helen?’
‘No, they kept her hidden. We were escorted to the Citadel – they knew me from my previous visit, even in Sigios. Priam was sitting on his throne and asked me what I wanted this time. I said, Helen, and he laughed at me! If that wretched son of his had been there. I would have killed him on the spot!’ He sat down, clutching his head between his hands.
‘And been killed yourself. Go on.’
‘Priam said Helen came of her own free will, that she did not wish to return to Greece, that she regarded Paris as her husband, and that she preferred to have the property she had taken with her in Troy, where she could use it to make sure that she never became a financial burden to her new country. He actually insinuated that I had usurped the throne of Lakedaimon, can you credit that? He said that after her brothers Kastor and Polydeukes died, she should have ruled in her own right! She was the daughter of Tyndareus! I am only Mykenai’s puppet!’
‘Well, well,’ said Nestor, chuckling. ‘It sounds to me as if Helen was plotting rebellion even if she had elected to remain with you in Amyklai, Menelaos.’
When my brother rounded on the old man fiercely, I struck the floor with my staff. ‘Go on, Menelaos!’
‘So I handed Priam the red tablet with the symbol of Ares on it and he stared at it as if he had never seen anything like it. His hand shook so much that he dropped it on the floor. It broke. Everyone jumped. Then Hektor picked it up and took it away.’
‘All of which must have occurred some days ago. Why didn’t you return at once?’ I asked.
He looked hangdog, didn’t answer, and I knew why as well as Nestor did. He had hoped to see Helen.
‘You haven’t told them how that first audience finished,’ Palamedes prompted.
‘I will, if I’m let!’ Menelaos snapped. ‘Priam’s eldest son, Deiphobos, publicly begged his father to murder us. Then Antenor stepped forward and offered to lodge us. He invoked Hospitable Zeus and forbade any Trojan to lift a hand against us.’
‘Interesting, coming from a Dardanian.’ I patted Menelaos soothingly. ‘Be of good cheer, brother! You’ll have your chance to be revenged soon enough. Now go and sleep.’
Only when Nestor and I were alone with Odysseus and Palamedes did I discover what I really wanted to know. Menelaos was the only one who had ever been to Troy, but during the year of our girding for war he had never managed to volunteer any useful information. How high were the walls? Very high. How many men could Priam call to arms? A lot. How firm were his ties to the rest of Asia Minor? Quite firm. It had been almost as bad as trying to prise information out of Kalchas, though my brother couldn’t offer the priest’s smooth excuse – that Apollo had tied his tongue.
‘We must move quickly, sire,’ said Palamedes quietly.
‘Why?’
‘Troy is a curious place, dominated by wise men and fools in equal number. Both can be dangerous. Priam is a mixture of wise man and fool. Among his counsellors I gained the most respect for Antenor and a youth named Polydamas. The son Menelaos just mentioned, Deiphobos, is a hotheaded pig. However, he isn’t the Heir. He seems to hold no position of importance other than that he’s one of the imperial sons – Priam’s by his Queen, Hekabe.’
‘As eldest he ought to be the Heir, surely.’
‘Priam has been a regular old goat in his day. He boasts the incredible number of fifty sons – by his Queen, his other wives, and many concubines. Of daughters I understand the tally is over a hundred – he throws more girls than boys, he told me. I asked why he hadn’t exposed some of the girls. He giggled and said that the beautiful ones made good wives for his allies, while the ugly ones wove enough cloth to keep the palace looking gorgeous.’
‘Tell me about the palace.’
‘It’s huge, sire. As big, I’d say, as the old House of Minos at Knossos. Each of Priam’s married children has a separate suite of rooms, and they live in luxury. There are other palaces within the Citadel. Antenor has one. So does the Heir.’
‘Who is the Heir? I remember Menelaos mentioned the name of Hektor, but naturally I assumed he’s the eldest.’
‘Hektor is a younger son by Queen Hekabe. He was there when we first arrived, but left almost at once on some urgent mission to Phrygia. I might add that he begged to be relieved of the duty, but Priam insisted he go. As he leads their army, at the moment it lacks its commander-in-chief. Which leads me to assume that Hektor is a wiser man than his father. He’s young – no more than twenty-five, I’d guess. A very big man. About the size of Achilles, in fact.’
I turned then to Odysseus, who was stroking his face slowly. ‘And what of you, Odysseus?’
‘On the subject of Hektor, I’d add that the soldiers and the common people adore him.’
‘I see. So you didn’t confine your activities to the palace.’
‘No, Palamedes did that. I prowled the city. A very useful and instructive exercise. Troy, sire, is a nation within walls. Two sets of walls. Those around the Citadel are imposing enough – higher than the walls around Mykenai or Tiryns. But the outer set which surrounds the entire city is mammoth. Troy is a city in the true meaning of that word, Agamemnon. It’s built entirely within the outer set of walls, not scattered outside the walls as our cities are. The people don’t need to flee inside when an enemy threatens because they already live inside. There are many narrow streets and countless, towering houses they call apartment buildings, each of which accommodates several dozen families.’
‘Antenor told me,’ Palamedes interrupted, ‘that at the last census one hundred and seventy thousand citizens declared their presence. I would judge from that fact that Priam could raise an army of forty thousand good men without looking any further than the city itself – fifty thousand if he used older men as well.’
Thinking of my own eighty thousand troops, I smiled. ‘Not enough to keep us out,’ I said.
‘More than enough,’ Odysseus said. ‘The city measures some leagues in circumference, though it’s more oblong than round. The outer ramparts are fantastic. I measured one stone from my fist knuckles to my elbow, then counted the rows. The walls are thirty cubits high and at least twenty cubits thick at their base. They’re so old that no one remembers when they were built, or why. Legend has it that they’re cursed and must disappear from sight for ever, thanks to Priam’s father, Laomedon. But I doubt they’ll disappear from sight thanks to our assaulting them. They slope gently and the stones have been polished. No secure grip for ladder or grapple.’
Conscious of a niggling depression, I cleared my throat. ‘Is there no weakness, Odysseus? No lesser wall? Or the gates?’
‘Yes, there is a weakness – though I wouldn’t count on it, sire. A section of the original walls collapsed on the western side during what I would judge was the same earthquake that finished Crete. Aiakos repaired the breach, which the Trojans now call the Western Curtain. It’s about five hundred paces in length, and rough hewn. Plenty of ledges and crannies for grapples. There are only three gates: one close by the Western Curtain, called the Skaian; one on the south side, called the Dardanian; and one on the northeast, called the Idan. The only other entrances are easily guarded drains and conduits which permit the passage of no more than one man at a time. The gates themselves are massive. Twenty cubits tall, arched over by the pathway which runs right around the top of the outer walls, enabling rapid transfer of troops from one section to another. The gates are built of logs reinforced with bronze plates and spikes. No ram would so much as make them shudder. Unless those gates are open, Agamemnon, you’ll need a miracle to enter Troy.’
Well, Odysseus was always pessimistic. ‘I can’t see their holding out against a force as large as ours, I just can’t.’
Palamedes studied the contents of his wine cup and said not one word; Nestor was of like mind. Odysseus continued.
‘Agamemnon,’ he said earnestly, ‘If the gates of Troy are
closed, they have more than enough men to hold you off. You must attempt to scale at one place only, the Western Curtain. But it’s only five hundred paces long. Forty thousand men would smother it like flies a lump of carrion. Believe me, they can keep you out for years! Everything hinges on whether they really believed that we’re still at home in Greece. But let them sail a fishing boat to this side of Tenedos and we’re undone. I think you have to plan for a long campaign.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You could, of course, starve them out.’
Nestor gasped in outrage. ‘Odysseus, Odysseus! There you go again! We’d be cursed to instant madness!’
He wriggled his red brows, unrepentant as ever. ‘I know, Nestor. But as far as I can see, all the rules of war seem to favour the enemy. Which is a great pity. Starvation makes sense.’
Suddenly tired, I rose to my feet. ‘Woe the race of men when your like has command, Odysseus. Go to bed. In the morning I’ll call a general council. The following day we’ll sail at dawn.’
As they went out, Odysseus turned. ‘How is Philoktetes?’
‘Machaon says there is no hope for him.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. What’s to be done with him?’
‘What can be done? He’ll have to stay here. It would be the height of folly to take him into a battle camp.’
‘I agree he can’t come with us, sire, but nor can we leave him here. Once we turn our backs on these Tenedians they’ll slit his windpipe. Send him to Lesbos. The Lesbians are more cultured people, they’ll not harm a sick man.’
‘He’d never survive the voyage,’ Nestor protested.
‘It’s still the least of the various evils.’
‘You’re right, Odysseus,’ I said. ‘Lesbos it is.’
‘My thanks. He’s a man worth saving if at all possible.’ Odysseus looked suddenly brisk. ‘I’ll tell him now.’
‘He wouldn’t understand you. He’s been in a coma for three days,’ I said.
13
NARRATED BY
Achilles
Kalchas made another prophecy, one which caused Agamemnon to change his mind about being the first of the Kings to set foot on Trojan soil; the first of the Kings to do that, said the priest, would die in the initial battle. I glanced at Patrokles and shrugged. If the Gods had chosen me as the doomed man, why should I worry? There was glory in it.
We had our sailing and landing orders, we knew when we would sweep onto the shore and beach our men. Patrokles and I stood on the foredeck of my flagship watching the vessels ahead of us, far fewer than those behind us, for we of Iolkos were among the first. Agamemnon’s flagship led the way with his huge Mykenaian convoy on his left and the ships of one of my father’s subject Kings, Iolaos of Phylake, on his right. I came next, after me Ajax and all the rest.
Before we pushed off Agamemnon made it clear that he didn’t expect to be greeted by hostile men bearing arms; he expected to invest the city without organised opposition.
But the Gods were not with us that day. The moment the seventh ship in Agamemnon’s line rounded the tip of Tenedos, great billows of smoke arose on the headland flanking Sigios. They had learned that we lurked nearby and they were ready for us.
Our orders were to take Sigios, then press on immediately to the city. When my own ship sailed out into the strait I could see the Trojan troops lining up along the beach.
Even the winds were against us. We had to furl our sails and break out the oars, which meant half of our army would be too weary to fight well. To add to our woes, the current issuing from the mouth of the Hellespont fanned out into the open sea, and it too was against us. It took the whole morning to row the short distance to the mainland.
I smiled sourly when I noticed that the order of precedence had changed; Iolaos of Phylake forged ahead of Agamemnon now, with the men of Phylake in their forty ships close behind him and the High King’s mighty fleet out on his left. Did Iolaos curse his fate, or welcome it? I wondered. He had been elected the first King ashore, he was the one Kalchas said must die.
Honour dictated that I should ask a bigger effort of my oarsmen, yet prudence urged that I ensure my Myrmidons retained enough breath to do battle.
‘You can’t catch Iolaos,’ Patrokles said, reading my mind. ‘What will be, will be.’
This wasn’t my first military engagement, for I had fought alongside my father since I came down from Pelion and the years with Chiron; but all those campaigns were as nothing compared to what awaited us on the beach at Sigios. The Trojans were lining up in thousands upon thousands, more and more of them, and the few ships which had sat on the pebbles yesterday were now inland, beyond the village.
When I touched Patrokles on the arm I felt it shaking, looked down at my own limbs: firm.
‘Patrokles, go to the stern and call across to Automedon in the next ship. Tell him to have his steersmen close up the gap between us, and tell him to pass the message on, not only to our ships, but to everyone else’s. When we beach we’ll not be doing much more than floating in the water, so the beaks won’t break down hulls. Tell Automedon to get his men across my deck onto the beach, and everybody else the same. Otherwise we’ll never manage to get enough troops ashore to avert a massacre.’
He sped through the waist to the afterdeck, cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted to the vigilant Automedon, whose armour sparkled in the sun as he shouted back. Then I saw him obey, saw his ship closing upon ours until it ran with its beaked bow just clear of our beam. The other ships in view were doing the same; we had turned into a floating bridge. Below me my men were up from their oars and arming, our impetus sufficient to run us aground. There were only ten ships ahead of me now, and the first of them belonged to Iolaos.
It plunged its beak into the shingle and came to a halt, shuddering; for a moment Iolaos stood in its bow hesitating, then he shrieked the Phylakian war cry and sped down into the waist. He was over the side with his men after him, swarming as they took up the battle song. Frightfully outnumbered, they did some havoc nonetheless. Then a massive warrior in a suit of gold cut Iolaos down and hacked him to ribbons with an axe.
Others were beaching now. Ships to my left were sliding in, their men jumping from the rails down into the mêlée, not willing to wait for ladders. I strapped on my helmet and clipped its golden plume out of the way, wriggled inside my gold-trimmed bronze cuirass to straighten it, and picked up my axe in both hands. It was a lovely thing, one of the pieces of plunder Minos had picked up during a foreign campaign, bigger and heavier by far than any Cretan axe. My sword brushed my leg, but Old Pelion lay put away, no use in close fighting. This was axe work, and my arms could swing that double-bladed beauty back and forth the whole day without flagging. Only Ajax and myself chose an axe for hand-to-hand combat; an axe big enough to be more useful than a sword was too cumbersome for an ordinary man. Little wonder then that I hungered to come at the gold-suited giant who had killed Iolaos.
Too intent upon the beach, too engrossed in taking everything into account, I lost whatever passed through my mind during those last few moments. When a shudder told me that we were aground, another followed hard upon it, almost causing me to lose my balance. A glance behind me revealed that Automedon had married his ship to mine and that his men were already pouring across my deck. Like some pampered Cretan woman’s monkey I leaped onto the prow and hung there looking down on the heads of such a mixture of men I could hardly tell friend from foe. But it was necessary that I be seen by all the men who surged behind, those on Alkimos’s vessel coming across Automedon’s deck, more and more of them as my ship still endured the weakening spasms of collisions occurring further and further away.
Then I brandished my axe high above my head, roared out the war cry of the Myrmidons in a brazen voice, and sprang from the prow down onto the seething mass of heads below me. Luck was with me; a Trojan head shattered beneath the impact of my heels. I fell on top of him still holding the axe fast in my hands, my shield somewhere on the deck above, too much of a hindra
nce in a struggle like this. In an instant I was upright, howling the battle call at the top of my lungs until the Myrmidons took it up and the air resonated with the chilling sound of Myrmidons out to kill. The Trojans wore purple plumes atop their helms, another piece of good luck; purple was forbidden to any Greek save the four High Kings – and Kalchas.
Eyes glared at me, a dozen swords menaced, but I reared up and brought the axe down with such force that I cleaved a man in two from skull to groin. It stopped them. Good counsel from my father, who had taught it to every Myrmidon: that absolute ferocity of aggression in hand to hand combat would make men back away instinctively. I used the axe again, this time in a circle like a spoke on a wheel, and those who were still foolish enough to try to get at me felt its blade slice their bellies through their armour, which was bronze. No leather for a Trojan! But then, they had the bronze monopoly. How rich Troy must be.
Patrokles was behind me with his shield to protect my back and Myrmidons were dropping countless in our rear from ships to shore. The old team was in action. I advanced, the axe breaking the ranks in front of me like a priest’s wand, cutting down anyone wearing a purple plume. This was nothing like the battle of a true test of strength; there was neither time nor room to single out a prince or a king, no space separating the opposing forces. This was just a pack of warriors of all degree, breast to breast. What seemed like years ago I had vowed to keep a tally of those I slew, but I soon became too excited to count, in love with the sudden give of soft flesh through hard bronze as the axe bit.
Nothing existed for me save blood and faces, terror and fury, gallant men who tried to parry the axe with their swords and died for it, cowards who met their fates in gibbering dread, worse than cowards who turned their backs and tried to flee. I felt myself invincible, I knew none on that field would bring me down. And I took pleasure in the sight of faces split wide in bloody yawns; the lust to kill soaked into my very marrow. A kind of madness, reaping a harvest of chests and bellies and heads, the axe dripping blood, blood running down the handle into the rough rope fibres wound around its base so that my hands wouldn’t slip. I forgot everything. All I wanted was to see purple plumes dyed red. If someone had put a Trojan helmet on my head and turned me loose on my own men I would have slaughtered just the same. Right and wrong did not exist, only the lust to kill. This was the meaning of all my years under the sun, this was what I had been left a mortal man to become: a perfect killing machine.