He bent to pull out his dagger, but one of Priam’s Eagles leaped at him with a snarl, recognizing the Ithakan king. Odysseus parried his sword blow and reversed a cut to the warrior’s neck. The blade hammered into the breastplate and snapped. Dropping the useless hilt, Odysseus grabbed the man by his breastplate and hauled him forward, butting him savagely, then crashing his fist into the man’s belly. The Eagle doubled over, and then his head snapped back as Odysseus’ knee exploded into his face.
He picked up the Eagle’s sword and plunged it into the man’s neck. Then, screaming his battle cry, “Ithaka! Ithaka!” he powered into the Trojan ranks, cutting and cleaving, an awesome fury upon him, his injured shoulder forgotten.
An unarmored Trojan warrior ran forward, ducking under Odysseus’ plunging sword and stabbing his blade toward the Ugly King’s belly. Odysseus leaped backward and tripped over a body. He rolled and came up swinging his sword two-handed, half beheading the warrior.
He glimpsed a movement to his right and blocked a lightning attack from a sword. Twisting his wrists and returning the blow, he cleaved the attacker from neck to belly.
There were Trojans all around him now. His sword rose and fell in the melee, cutting through leather and flesh and bone. He twisted and swung and then, too late, saw a sword slashing toward his neck. Another sword flashed up to block it, parrying the death blow. Odysseus recognized the braided red beard and grinned at Achilles’ shield bearer.
“Be careful, old man,” Thibo shouted. “I can’t watch out for both of us.”
Odysseus ducked under a two-handed cut from his right and drove his sword home in the man’s chest. Beside him Thibo leaped and twisted, slashing and killing. Odysseus saw dawn light gleam off his bloody blade and realized that the night mist was starting to clear.
Two Trojan soldiers ran at Thibo. He blocked a blow from the first, gutting the man with a reverse stroke. His sword stuck in the man’s belly. The second warrior’s sword arced toward his head. Odysseus parried the blow, chopping his sword through the man’s neck.
“Where is Achilles?” he asked, panting. “You’re supposed to be watching out for him.”
Thibo shrugged. “Achilles can take care of himself.”
Daylight was clearing the mist quickly, and Odysseus could see warriors struggling and dying all around him.
Three Trojans came at him at once, and he cursed aloud as he cleaved one neck and ducked under a slashing blade. Then, dropping to his haunches, he charged into the two other soldiers like a bull. He caught one in the belly with his injured shoulder and grunted in agony. The other fell back, stumbling over a body, and was disemboweled by a slashing sword.
Odysseus saw Achilles standing over him, his two swords dripping blood.
“Go back, Ithaka,” the Thessalian king shouted above the noise of battle, “or that wound will kill you. Only the dagger is saving you.”
Odysseus looked down and saw a knife blade stuck in his thigh. Blood had drenched his leg. In the fury of battle he had not noticed it.
“And get yourself armored,” Achilles ordered. Swaying to one side as a sword scythed past his chest, he chopped his attacker down with a blow to the neck.
Odysseus shouted back, “You have no armor, Achilles!”
Achilles grinned at him and charged back into the fray.
Odysseus realized he felt dizzy from blood loss, and he cursed. As he stepped forward, he felt his knees give way. Hands grabbed him and pulled him upright, and then he felt a powerful shoulder lift him up under the arm. The sounds of fighting receded as, cursing, he was dragged from the battlefield.
He was on the Penelope again, the wind in his hair, the fresh sea air filling his chest. A huge flock of gulls was flying over the ship, darkening the sky with their wings. The clamor of their cries was deafening. Stupid birds, gulls, he thought to himself. Then he saw that the birds had the faces of women, contorted with hatred and spite. Harpies, he thought, coming to rend his flesh.
The sharp pain of teeth tearing his leg brought him around, and he found himself lying on muddy ground clear of the battlefield. One of his crewmen, the powerful fighter Leukon, was stitching the wound in his thigh, his thick fingers clumsy on the blood-soaked thread. Leukon’s leg had been broken three days before, and he could not fight. Now he sat awkwardly and was clearly in agony from the splinted leg.
Odysseus sat up. “Give me wine, someone,” he demanded, and was handed a goblet. He drank it down, asked for another, and watched impatiently as Leukon tied off the stitches. The blood had stopped flowing, and he felt the wine reviving him.
“Back to the battle, Leukon,” he said.
“Aye, my king,” said the huge warrior, and struggled to stand up.
“Not you, you fool. Me!” Odysseus made to rise, but a hand on his shoulder held him down and a cold voice said, “The battle is over for you today, Odysseus.”
He looked up to see Agamemnon. With a massive effort Odysseus levered himself up, trying to ignore the torment in his shoulder and the pain of the stitches pulling in his leg. The Mykene king was right. He felt as weak as a pup, and it took all his willpower to stay upright.
They were looking over the battlefield from a vantage point in front of the main earthwork. The early sun had burned off the mist, and he could see clearly the battle on the plain before them. It was a melee, foot soldiers on both sides fighting desperately, neither side giving any quarter. Agamemnon’s cavalry had deployed to the left, hitting the right flank of the enemy, forcing Hektor to bring the bulk of his Trojan Horse to that side in a ferocious counterattack. Odysseus could see that the Trojans had the upper hand, forcing Agamemnon’s riders back from the river. Enjoy your success while you can, Hektor, my friend, he thought.
Amid the sea of fighting and struggling men, he could see a group of black-clad warriors forging an arrowhead into the Trojan infantry.
“Achilles and his men are fighting without armor,” he said angrily. During their long night of planning, the western kings had agreed that once the alarm was raised, the elite killing forces would fade back and armor themselves. Achilles, with the battle fury upon him, had ignored that agreement and fought on.
“He can never survive,” Odysseus muttered. “And his Myrmidons will not leave him. He is condemning them all to death.”
“That would be a shame,” Agamemnon said flatly.
Odysseus looked at him, fury rising in his chest. “Have you no loyalty to anyone, Mykene?” he asked angrily. “Achilles is fighting your war.”
Agamemnon turned and gazed at him, his dark eyes as cold and empty as a winter sky. “Achilles fights for the glory of Achilles,” he said, and Odysseus knew it was true.
The battle raged on as the sun climbed in the sky. Odysseus could see that the western armies were being pushed back slowly, and Achilles and his band were in danger of being surrounded. He glanced at the sun, standing proud of the horizon now, and started watching anxiously southward, along the river valley. Finally he saw a distant speck, a horseman riding with all speed toward them. The scout edged his way around the rear of the fighting, galloped up, and threw himself off his horse before Agamemnon.
“They are coming, lord!” he gasped.
“About time,” the Battle King said with satisfaction.
Sunlight glinted off the spear points of hundreds of marching men flanked by cavalry as a new army marched toward Troy. Odysseus looked back to the battle before him. The Trojans, lower down, had not seen the threat yet.