‘Helenus wasn’t lying,’ Agamemnon retorted. ‘But if you want to assemble your reserve of cowards and cripples, then go ahead. I’m going to the walls.’
Leaving Menelaus fuming with rage behind him, Agamemnon marched over to the gate. Nestor followed him up the wooden steps to the ramparts and together they looked out into the morning sun at their amassed foes. There was a stretch of empty grassland that had been cleansed of the dead during the truce of the previous evening; beyond this, little more than a bowshot from the battlements, stood the ranks of the Trojans and their allies. Thousands upon thousands of infantry waited with their spears and helmets glinting in the sunlight. Before them were dense lines of archers, their bows fitted with arrows and held in readiness, while behind were scores of chariots and row upon row of cavalry.
It was reminiscent of the scene only weeks before, when Hector’s army had laid siege to the Greek camp. Shortly afterwards, they had succeeded in scaling the walls and throwing down the gates before pouring through the Greek tents to threaten the beached galleys. For the first time, Agamemnon wondered at how fruitless the loss of life had been between then and now: thousands of lives expended just to come full circle. The only difference, perhaps, was that the awe-inspiring figures of Hector and Sarpedon had been replaced by Eurypylus and Deiphobus. Agamemnon looked over at the Mysian king standing boldly in the front rank and saw the confidence in his grim face, a confidence justified by his fighting ability. He had brought down many Greek champions in the terrible battles of the preceding days, and none of the surviving kings were able to overcome him. If the oracles were true and not the fantasy that Menelaus claimed them to be, then Neoptolemus would have to be more than a mere shadow of his father to defeat such a warrior. But unless the gods delivered Achilles’s son on to the shores of Ilium before the day was out, it would be too late anyway. For the war would likely be over, and the Greek army slain or taken into captivity.
Then a flash of white on the Aegean caught his eye. He looked westward across the waves and saw the smudge of a sail shining against the blue waters as it steered towards land. For a moment his heart leapt with joy. Then he saw the ship was not heading towards the Greek camp, but north to Troy – the same galley Menelaus had already spoken of. Almost certainly a merchant, as his brother had guessed, chancing the blockade of the city to bring much needed luxuries at extortionate prices. And with every Greek now waiting behind their walls, the daring captain was sure to make his destination and reap a rich reward.
There was a movement on the plain and Agamemnon watched Eurypylus raise his hand and motion towards the camp. With a great shout, the swarm of archers surged forward to within range of the walls. Behind them, the spearmen began to advance and the tramp of their sandalled feet shook the air. Eurypylus’s voice called out a command and hundreds of bows sang out in reply. Agamemnon and Nestor dived down beneath the parapet as arrows whistled overhead, followed by cries of anguish and despair from the men behind the walls.
The battle had begun.
Chapter Twenty-two
THE SHADOW OF ACHILLES
What does it mean?’ Omeros asked, leaning against the bow rail and staring at the thin columns of smoke twisting up from the shores of Ilium.
‘There’s been another battle,’ Diomedes answered.
‘Is it Troy?’ Neoptolemus said, shouldering through the crowd of men gathering at the prow of the galley. ‘Are we too late?’
He seized hold of the bow rail and glared at the dark crust of land, his face filled with concern that the war might be over and his chance of emulating his father gone.
‘Perhaps we are,’ Diomedes said, ‘but not because Troy has fallen. That smoke’s coming from the Greek camp.’
Eperitus put a hand against one of the leather ropes that threaded down from the mast, steadying himself against the roll of the ship. They had sailed through the night, with Odysseus and Sthenelaus navigating their course by the stars as they hurried back to Ilium, and the early morning sun was now rising full in their faces as they forged east across the waves. He shielded his eyes against its glare and tried to make out what the source of the smoke was. Unlike his comrades, to whom the far shore was but a strip of grey cresting the blue of the Aegean, he could see the walls and towers that guarded the Greek camp and the hundreds of black-hulled ships drawn up on the beach behind them. He could see the mounds of burnt wood on the upper reaches of the ridge that hemmed in the camp, from which the dark spires of smoke were rising. And he could see that more columns drifted up from the plain beyond the defences of the Greeks.
‘The camp hasn’t been destroyed. There’s been a battle, though; the smoke is from the funeral pyres of the dead. Some are inside the walls, but some are outside, and that can only mean the camp is under siege.’
Odysseus, who had been at the helm with Sthenelaus, now joined them.
‘You’re right, though where Priam found enough soldiers to launch another attack at this late stage in the war I don’t know. But if the Trojans are laying siege to the walls, then we’ll be of more use landing further up the coast, beyond the camp, and seeing what we can do from there.’
Diomedes gave him a questioning look.
‘With sixty Argives? We’d be better landing in the camp and bolstering the defences.’
‘You seem to forget I am with you,’ Neoptolemus said. ‘The son of Achilles is worth more than sixty Argives, or even six hundred. If there’s a Trojan army before the walls of the camp, we should attack them from behind and drive them in panic and slaughter back to their own city.’
Diomedes looked at him for a moment, but despite his greater rank, age and experience decided to concede the point.
‘The gods themselves chose you, Neoptolemus,’ he said, giving him a slight bow, ‘and who am I to question their judgement? If you’re ready to stand in your father’s footprints, then it will be a pleasure to fight beside you.’
Neoptolemus smiled and gripped Diomedes’s hand.
‘Then let’s arm for battle.’
He set off towards the helm, where his splendid armour was kept hidden beneath drapes of sailcloth. Eperitus looked at Odysseus, who shrugged and turned on his heel, shouting orders for a change of course away from the camp and towards Troy.
As the ship’s crew burst into a brief period of high activity, Eperitus went to the bench where his armour was stowed and pulled on his breastplate. Omeros joined him, helping him with the buckles that held the two halves together. Eperitus glanced across at Neoptolemus, who was struggling to fit the bronze cuirass that Hephaistos had crafted in exact mimicry of Achilles’s muscular torso. An Argive offered his help – doubtless keen to lay his hands on the beautiful armour – but Neoptolemus refused sharply and struggled on. Not for the first time, Eperitus found himself wondering how Neoptolemus would perform in battle, whether he had inherited Achilles’s prowess, pride and thirst for glory, or whether he would wither beneath the great shadow of his father. The only thing Eperitus felt certain of was that Neoptolemus would be a lone warrior, suited more to the heroic duels between champions than the close press of the battle lines, in which each man’s life depended as much on his neighbour as himself.
By the time the crew were armed and ready to face whatever lay waiting on the plains of Ilium, the shoreline was close enough for them all to see the beached galleys of the Greek fleet to the south-east, the sprawl of tents beyond them and the defensive walls that had been erected on the ridge above. Long trails of smoke still fed upwards from the pyres of the dead, leaning at diagonals with the prevailing westerly wind. But of a besieging army there was no sign, until the moment the galley began its approach towards a small cove a short march north of the Greek camp. Then they heard the familiar hum of massed arrows and saw the sky above the cliffs to the south-east darken as thousands of missiles filled the air. A sense of haste took hold of the galley as the sail was lowered and the oars thrust through their leather loops into the water. The crew rowed the vessel silently into the cove and the anchor stones were cast into the shallow sea. Then they leapt overboard and splashed towards the narrow semicircle of sand.