Glyn Iliffe - The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

Such was the power of his voice that the guards stopped and looked to Deidameia for what to do. She turned to Lycomedes with doubt in her eyes, but it was Neoptolemus who answered.

‘What is this inheritance?’

‘Beware the gifts of Odysseus,’ Lycomedes warned. ‘They snared your father, and they will snare you.’

Neoptolemus ignored the old man and stood.

‘Speak, Odysseus.’

Odysseus pushed the spear point away from his stomach and looked Neoptolemus in the eye.

‘There’s one thing I haven’t told you about, though you may have pondered it already – the fate of Achilles’s splendid armour. After your father’s death, Great Ajax carried his corpse back to the Greek camp, while I fought off the Trojans that pursued us. That gave us both a claim to the armour, though Ajax’s was by far the greater because he was Achilles’s cousin. But Ajax had also angered the gods with his arrogance, and to get their revenge they told me to stake my claim on the armour and deny it to Ajax by whatever means possible.’

Here he paused and looked at Diomedes and Eperitus. Eperitus knew that the guilt of Ajax’s suicide was still upon him and must have realised what was coming next.

‘And so I cheated – I bribed some prisoners to declare that I was the one the Trojans feared the most, and by their false testimony Achilles’s armour was awarded to me. That evening, Ajax lost his mind and killed himself, just as the gods had known he would. Ever since then, even though I was driven to what I did by the command of the immortals, I have known the armour could never be mine. And neither could it ever have belonged to Ajax. It has only one true heir – you, Neoptolemus.’

As he finished, he called to a slave and spoke to him in a low voice. The slave ran to the doors and opened them. A moment later, Polites, Eurybates and Omeros entered, carrying their burdens. Polites laid the large wooden box on the floor and threw open the hinged lid, revealing a flash of gold that caused a stir among the onlookers. At a nod from Odysseus, he pulled out the red-plumed helmet and lifted it in one hand above his head, turning in a half-circle so the whole hall could see it. The mirror-like finish of the gold blazed in the light of the hearth and torches and earned a gasp of disbelief. After sweeping the platters and cups from a table with a crash, he placed it down and plucked out the tin greaves, holding one in each hand as he showed them to the hall in the same fashion. Laying these beside the helmet, Polites returned to the wooden chest and retrieved the bronze cuirass that the smith-god had shaped to exactly mimic the perfect torso of Achilles.

‘By all the gods!’ Lycomedes exclaimed as Polites raised it high above his head.

Neoptolemus brushed past his mother and moved to the edge of the dais, his mouth wide open.

‘Behold, your father’s famed spear,’ Odysseus said, taking the weapon from Omeros’s grasp and raising it in both hands above his head, before leaning it against the table where the rest of the armour sat. ‘This was the spear that killed the great Hector and countless other Trojans of great renown. Yet all these things are as nothing compared to this .’

He beckoned Eurybates forward and untied the strings that held the sail cloth in place. It fell to the floor, revealing the great shield of Achilles in a flash gold and silver. A shout of wonder echoed through the great hall as every eye seized on the shining disc. Its boss depicted the Earth and Sea, surrounded by the Sun, Moon and stars. Four more concentric circles showed different scenes from human life, the figures within moving and dancing and fighting as they had done ever since Hephaistos had first animated them. At the sight of the shield, Neoptolemus stepped down from the dais and skirted the hearth to be near it.

‘These are mine ?’ he asked, looking fleetingly at Odysseus before returning his gaze to the collection of armour.

‘They were your father’s, and now they’re yours, regardless of whether you come to Troy or not.’

But there was no longer any question of whether Neoptolemus would take up his father’s mantle and go to war. He lifted the shield from Eurybates’s shoulder and slipped it onto his own arm. Odysseus fetched the helmet and lowered it slowly onto his head, while Diomedes placed the great ash spear in his hand. Neoptolemus lifted it above his shoulder with familiar ease, revelling in the feel of the heavy armaments that fitted him so well. He turned to his mother, whose tears were glistening on her cheeks as she leaned her weight against Lycomedes’s throne. Phaedra had lowered her pretty face into her hands and was sobbing loudly. Then he looked back at Odysseus and the others with a smile.

‘When do we leave?’ he asked.

Chapter Twenty-one

T HE G REEKS AT B AY

Agamemnon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His arms and legs felt like stone and his mind was fuddled by a night without sleep, but a new morning was upon him and he was still the leader of what remained of the Greek army. The King of Men, he mocked himself with an ironic smile.

Then he forced his lids open again and pushed aside the heavy canvas flap of his tent. As he stepped out, the top of the sun was peering over the battlements to the east, framing the figures that stood watch there. Grey smoke crept across the blue skies above them, twisting up from the smouldering bonfires that had burned great holes in the blackness of the night before. Beyond the walls were more trails from the many pyres of their enemies on the plain. The morning air, though freshened by a breeze from the sea, still reeked of burnt wood and roasted flesh.

‘My lord,’ said Menestheus, the Athenian king, greeting him with a small bow.

King Idomeneus was beside him, but the Cretan remained standing stiffly and only acknowledged Agamemnon with a slight narrowing of his eyes. Both men were dressed in breastplate, helmet and greaves, with swords slung in scabbards beneath their left arms. Their armour-bearers stood behind them, holding their shields and spears.

‘What is it?’ Agamemnon asked, too tired to bother hiding his annoyance. ‘Are they preparing to attack again?’

‘Their camp’s astir, but they’re in no hurry to renew battle,’ Idomeneus answered. ‘Perhaps they won’t need to.’

Agamemnon shot him a stern glance. ‘Meaning what?’

Talthybius appeared from the tent before Idomeneus could answer, carrying Agamemnon’s shield, helmet and spears. The Mycenaean king was already wearing his greaves and the cuirass gifted to him by Cinyras of Cyprus, though its bands of gold, blue enamel and tin were still dinted and spattered with gore from the previous day’s battle. He took the helmet from his herald’s hands and crammed it onto his head.

‘If you’ve got something to say, then say it,’ he snapped, glaring at the two kings.

‘We’re worried for the morale of the army,’ Menestheus said, stepping toward Agamemnon and looking him in the eye. ‘The Mysians are fresh and eager to fight. Their king – this Eurypylus – is like another Hector, riding across the battlefield and bringing death wherever he goes. The Trojans have taken new heart from his presence, while yesterday we were fortunate just to reach the safety of the walls with most of our force still intact. But the men won’t take much more. Even if Eurypylus and Deiphobus don’t breach the walls today and destroy us, there’s talk that some men are planning to slip away at night – push the galleys into the sea and just sail home. They’ve had enough.’

Agamemnon’s brow furrowed. ‘We’ll see about that. Where’s my brother?’