‘In the name of Apollo, stop them!’ Cassandra wailed. ‘Father, please believe me. There are men inside the horse. I have seen it!’
Astynome heard the words and turned to look up at the horse. Now she understood: Odysseus had hidden warriors inside the large wooden body, and among them was Eperitus. She looked at the faces all around her, staring up at the great effigy as it towered over them and pondering Cassandra’s desperate warning. Surely they would see that they were being tricked, that Omeros and his story were just another part of Odysseus’s scheme to smuggle armed men into the city – to have the Trojans themselves carry out his plan. Within moments they would be calling for firewood and torches from the city; the horse would be transformed into a blazing pyre, consuming the hopes of the Greeks – and her beloved Eperitus – with it. And Astynome was powerless to stop them.
Then the silence was broken – not by angry shouts, but a long, low laugh. Priam was staring at his daughter, with her wide eyes and torn black robes, and laughing. With his shoulders shaking, he laid his head back and laughed out loud. Idaeus joined him, then Omeros. The crowd followed, slowly at first but with growing mirth as the absurd idea of a horse full of soldiers took hold of them. Even Apheidas was infected by it, his amused smile broadening until he broke into billows of laughter, holding his hands to his sides.
‘Take the horse into the city,’ Priam ordered, still smiling.
Knowing Apollo’s curse had defeated her again, Cassandra threw her hands over her ears and ran as fast as she could to the ford.
Chapter Thirty-six
VOICES FROM HOME
Eperitus was woken by a hand gently shaking his shoulder.
‘Won’t be long now,’ he heard Odysseus’s voice say in a dry-throated whisper.
He opened his eyes to see the king’s face leaning close, a blurred grey oval in the almost complete blackness of the horse’s belly. Many others were with them, invisible in the darkness but filling Eperitus’s senses with the sound of their breathing and the sour odour of their sweat. There was the ever-present smell of smoke, too, which still clung to their clothing from the fires of the day before when they had put the Greek camp to the torch. Odysseus patted his shoulder and leaned back against the fir-planked wall, smiling reassuringly as if he were back in the comfort of his own palace on Ithaca. But if he had meant to encourage his captain, all he succeeded in doing was reminding him that they were shut up inside the wooden horse and surrounded by their enemies, awaiting the moment when they would enact the most daring gamble of the whole war. Eperitus strained his senses, but the city outside was silent and still, the celebrations finally over as its people enjoyed the deep, wine-induced sleep of a nation at peace – a treacherous, ephemeral peace that would soon be ripped apart by the clamour of returning war.
Eperitus’s stomach shifted nervously at the thought. He sat up and stretched the stiffness out of his limbs. The hard wooden bench had numbed his backside and his efforts to rub some life into each buttock earned grumbled complaints from Sthenelaus on his left and Little Ajax on his right. Looking around, he could just make out the faces of the others who had been chosen for the mission. There were only twenty-four of them – all that could fit in the cramped interior of the horse – but they were the best warriors in the Greek army, hand-picked by Odysseus and Menelaus for their courage and fighting skill. They were also the most high-ranking – every one a king, prince or commander – and if their mission failed and they were killed or captured it would mean total defeat for the Greeks. And yet victory could not be obtained without such risks. The grim-faced men inside the horse understood that; they also understood that victory would earn them immortal glory and a name that would live on long after their bodies had perished and their souls had gone down to Hades. It was this desire – the appeal of glory to every warrior – that Odysseus had used to ensure they would agree to his bold, reckless scheme.
Eperitus looked at the king’s face – eyes closed, head back – and recalled the debate aboard the beached ship, when the full extent of his plans had been laid before the key members of the Council of Kings. All understood immediately that it would bring about the end of the conflict at a stroke: either Troy would fall in a single night, or the cream of the Greek army would be caught and wiped out. But when many baulked at so high a risk – most significantly Agamemnon – Odysseus had played on their weariness with the seemingly endless war and spiced his appeal with the promise of undying fame. His smooth, persuasive voice reminded them how they had set out from their homes expecting a quick victory bathed in the blood of Trojans and rewarded with a rich bounty of gold and slaves. Instead, they had endured ten years of siege warfare, deprived of the comforts of home and the love of their families. And though at first they had tried to ignore the omen from Zeus that the war would last a decade, he warned them not to forget it again now that the prophecy had come to the end of its course. Now, Odysseus said, was not the time to shy away from risks, but to seize them and gamble everything.
The debate was easily won, with Agamemnon and Nestor’s doubts overruled by the sheer enthusiasm of Menelaus, Neoptolemus, Diomedes and many others. In the days that followed, Epeius – the most gifted craftsman in the army – oversaw the building of the wooden horse while the rest of the Greeks threw themselves into making the fleet seaworthy again. All passage into or out of the camp was halted, to prevent spies informing the Trojans of what was happening. Finally, two days after the horse was finished, the winds sprang up again and the rest of Odysseus’s scheme was put into motion. The camp was packed up in a hurry, and whatever could not be stowed aboard the hundreds of galleys was burnt. Meanwhile, the gates and part of the surrounding walls had been knocked down and the colossal horse wheeled out onto the plain. Under the command of Agamemnon and Nestor, the fleet then sailed the short distance to Tenedos and hid itself on the western flank of the island where it would not be seen from the shore. After nightfall, Omeros was left alone in the remains of the camp – waiting to be found by the Trojans the next morning – while teams of oxen had dragged the wooden horse to the ridge overlooking the Scamander. Here the beasts had been set free and the picked band of warriors had climbed up into the horse, their armour shrouded in cloth to stop it gleaming in the darkness or clanking inadvertently. Epeius came last, drawing the rope ladder up behind him. Though a renowned coward, he was included in the party because he was the only man who knew how to open or close the trap door, which he had designed to be invisible from the outside. The door shut with a click, and the longest day of Eperitus’s life began.
It had been a day filled with discomfort, stiffness and boredom, sliced through by moments of intense fear and anxiety. Dawn had seen the arrival of Apheidas and Aeneas, and Eperitus’s urge to leap out and face his father had only been checked by his self-discipline and the inner knowledge the night would bring other opportunities for revenge. Menelaus had been less restrained when Deiphobus had arrived with Helen in his chariot. He had not seen his wife so close in ten years and her beauty had lost none of its allure, but the sight of her with her new husband had him clawing at the hatch to get out. It had taken all the strength of Neoptolemus, Idomeneus and Diomedes to hold him down and keep him quiet.