‘Who in Ares’s name are you?’ one of the Myrmidons snarled. ‘And what’re you doing in with the horses?’
‘Sleeping,’ the beggar replied haughtily, taking his gnarled staff from the fence post where he had left it the night before and leaning his weight upon it. ‘A man’s entitled to sleep, ain’t he – even if he’s gotta lay his head down with beasts!’
The Myrmidons closed on him angrily, only stopping as they caught the stench of manure and wrinkling their noses up at him in disgust. His appearance matched his aroma. His tunic and cloak were so ragged and torn that large patches of grimy brown skin were visible through the rents. His belt was a long piece of rope – wound several times about his waist – and he wore no sandals, leaving his bare feet caked in manure and dust. His face was almost black with dirt, while his hair and beard were matted with filth and stuck all over with pieces of hay and other accumulated vegetation. And though once a thickset man – a farmer or fisherman, possibly, by his physique – his back was now curved and his knees bent outward so that he seemed a hunched, shuffling creature to their eyes.
‘Two of those “beasts”, as you call them, are immortal,’ the first Myrmidon sneered. ‘And if their master had caught you in with them, rather than us, he’d have lopped off your head by now and thrown your corpse into the sea for the fish to feed on.’
‘Immortal, you say? Then surely they’re the horses of Achilles – Balius and Xanthus.’
‘Not any more,’ the second Myrmidon corrected. ‘Achilles is dead and now they belong to his son, Neoptolemus. And unless you want him to find you here then you’d better get on your way.’
The beggar glanced over towards the huts and tents where the Myrmidon army had been camped for ten years, then looked back at the two men and nodded. But as he turned to go he saw the bags of feed hanging from each of their arms and pointed at the pile of small, red apples on top.
‘Will you spare an old man an apple? I can’t remember the last time I had a whole apple just to meself.’
‘Get on with you!’ one of the men shouted, kicking his behind and sending him sprawling into the dry grass.
The beggar watched the Myrmidons walk away laughing, then slowly picked himself up and began shuffling towards the mass of tents that constituted the rest of the Greek camp. Though the army had routed the Trojans and their Mysian allies several days before, the mood in the camp had become sullen again. Until the arrival of Neoptolemus the Greeks had suffered many casualties, and though they had repaid their enemies in great slaughter, the glory of victory had quickly grown stale and lost its appeal. The survivors mourned their fallen comrades, but even more now they longed for the final conquest of Troy that would release them from their oaths and allow them to return home. As the beggar passed between them, he saw the emptiness in their dark-ringed eyes and knew that they were at the last ebb of their strength. The coming of Neoptolemus – who had taken Achilles’s position at the head of the Myrmidons and now lived in his father’s hut – and his defeat of King Eurypylus had stretched their hope a little further, but it would not endure forever. The beggar could sense the war’s end was close now, just as surely as the last days of summer were passing and the autumn was waiting to take its place.
He saw a banner fluttering in the wind ahead of him. It was green with a golden fox leaping across its centre, and though the material was faded and its edges tattered it remained a symbol of pride to the men who followed it into battle. The beggar watched it for a moment, then began shuffling towards it. Men looked up at the sound of his staff and quickly moved out of his way as they caught his stench and saw his filthy clothing. Eventually he found the hut beneath which the banner flickered and snapped. Three men were seated before it in tall chairs draped with rich furs – the sort of pelts, he noted with greedy eyes, that could make a beggar’s life so much warmer and happier. They were clearly warriors of high rank and renown, sitting with their legs thrust out before them and kraters of wine in their laps as they regarded him with a mixture of distaste and cautious interest.
‘Go warm yourself by the flames, father,’ one of them said, nodding towards the circular fire before their feet.
A black pot hung over it, bathing the beggar’s senses with the delicious smell of porridge while provoking his stomach into a series of groans.
‘My thanks to you, King Diomedes,’ he said, settling cross-legged before the campfire and holding out his blackened hands towards its warmth.
Diomedes gave him a half smile and nodded to a male slave, who walked over to the pot and doled out a ladleful of porridge into a wooden bowl. He passed it with disdain to the beggar, who cackled with joy as he raised the steaming broth to his lips.
‘He stinks like the lowest pit of Hades,’ Sthenelaus said, leaning slightly towards Diomedes.
Euryalus, seated on the other side of Sthenelaus, could barely conceal the sneer on his lips as the beggar slurped noisily at the contents of the bowl.
‘You shouldn’t encourage these vagabonds, Diomedes. Show kindness to one and before you know it you’ll have an army of them at the door of your hut.’
Diomedes smiled. ‘Let the man eat. Isn’t there enough suffering in this world without denying a poor wretch a morsel of food?’
‘There speaks a true king,’ said the beggar, casting the empty bowl aside and rising to his feet. ‘I knew you was Diomedes, as soon as I set eyes on you. Tydeus’s son, yet greater than he.’
‘It isn’t your place to make that judgement,’ Euryalus admonished him.
The beggar flicked his hands up in a dismissive gesture.
‘Who said it were my judgement? A beggar may lack wisdom, but he ain’t deaf. I’m only repeating what I’ve heard others say: that Tydeus was a great man who killed Melanippus at the first siege of Thebes, though he died later of his wounds. But they also say he dishonoured himself by devouring Melanippus’s brains – something his son wouldn’t ever stoop to.’
‘You can’t deny he’s a well-informed vagabond,’ Sthenelaus commented with a grin.
‘As for your father, Sthenelaus,’ the beggar added, ‘they say he were killed by a thunderbolt, for boasting that even Zeus couldn’t stop him scaling the walls of Thebes.’
‘Who do you think you are!’ Sthenelaus snapped, rising from his chair.
Diomedes laid a hand on his wrist and pulled him back down to his seat.
‘Whoever he is, he’s neither as ignorant nor as foolish as he looks. For all we know he could be a god in disguise. Do you have a bag, father?’
The beggar pulled aside his cloak to reveal a battered leather purse, hung across his shoulder by an old cord. Diomedes stood and walked to his hut, signalling for the beggar to follow. As the bent figure entered behind him, he passed him a basket of bread and another of meat.
‘Here, fill your bag for your onward journey. And if a king can advise a pauper in his trade, I suggest in future you don’t insult the fathers of the men you’re begging from.’
The old man smiled and took both baskets, somehow managing to cram the entire contents into his purse.
‘If I insult you,’ he asked, ‘why repay me with such generosity?’
‘Because there’s something about you. A presence that marks you out from the rest of your kind. You may be a god, or you may just be a good man fallen on hard times, but I know better than to turn you away with nothing more than scorn.’
‘Then perhaps I’m worth a cup of wine, too,’ the beggar grinned.