Glyn Iliffe - The Armour of Achilles

Chapter Forty-Five

T HE M ADNESS OF A JAX

‘Who’s the woman, Eperitus?’

Diocles and the other guards swung the gates open as Eperitus and Astynome approached.

‘A friend of mine,’ he replied, slapping Astynome’s backside so that the Spartans understood what he meant. Astynome shot him a glance from beneath her hood but said nothing. ‘I’m taking her back to her father’s farm. I pay well for his goods and I wouldn’t want them to get lost.’

‘No, I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ Diocles said, eyeing the fine figure beneath the cloak. ‘Are his goods for sale to anyone else?’

‘You’ll find my father’s “goods” are very picky, Greek!’ Astynome snapped.

‘She’s just as fiery in bed,’ Eperitus added, holding up his hand apologetically as Diocles’s face suddenly darkened. ‘If the Trojan men had her temper they’d have beaten us years ago.’

Diocles’s frown receded a little, while behind him the other guards laughed and jeered at him.

‘Well, just you make sure you escort her out of the camp every time she visits, because if I catch her I might just have to teach her some manners.’

Eperitus smiled and gave a tug on his horse’s reins, leading it over the causeway towards the open plain. Astynome followed, pulling her smaller mount behind her. The sky above them was already a deep blue and marked with a smattering of early stars. The mountains in the east had darkened to a jagged line of black peaks against the horizon.

‘Couldn’t you have thought of something better to say?’ Astynome berated him as they moved out of earshot. ‘I’m no prostitute and I don’t like being compared to one.’

Eperitus did not reply. The charade at the gate over, his heart was heavy again and his mind filled with dark thoughts. The only comfort was the presence of Astynome – despite her temporary exasperation – and he tried to distract himself by thinking of the rest of his life spent with her. Then his sharp ears caught footsteps following behind and he turned to see a familiar figure coming towards them in the dusky half-light.

‘Arceisius! What are you doing here?’

‘Where are you going, Eperitus? I think you should tell me.’

‘I can’t stay with the army.’

‘You’re going to Troy with Astynome, aren’t you?’

There was a strange look in Arceisius’s eye, as if he knew the truth but could not bring himself to believe it. Eperitus hesitated, not knowing how to answer.

‘Yes, he is,’ Astynome answered, reaching out and placing a calming hand on Arceisius’s upper arm.

‘I’m going to end the war, Arceisius. I’m going to meet my father in the temple of Thymbrean Apollo—’

‘Your father !’

‘Yes. He says he can bring peace and I’m willing to give him a chance. I don’t think he’s acting on behalf of Priam, but peace is peace and I’m at the point where I’ll take it in any form it’s offered.’

Eperitus crouched beside Astynome’s horse with his hands cupped together. Astynome stepped on to his crossed fingers and mounted.

‘But you hate Apheidas,’ Arceisius continued. ‘You’ve hated him for as long as I’ve known you. And now you’re betraying Odysseus for his sake? How can you, after all you and Odysseus have been through together?’

‘You can call me a traitor if you wish, Arceisius, but I’m doing this for Odysseus’s sake, and for Astynome’s. Do you think I’d ever give up my honour for personal gain?’ He mounted his horse and took the reins, turning the beast to face Arceisius. ‘My honour is everything I’ve ever had, but if I can stop this war by surrendering it, then it’ll be worthwhile. Odysseus needs to get back to Ithaca before he loses all trace of who he really is; and I’ll not have Astynome raped or worse if the Greeks ever succeed in taking Troy.’

Suddenly the point of Arceisius’s sword was pressed against his stomach, just beneath the line of his cuirass.

‘I won’t let you go, Eperitus. You’re ill – a fever or something – but whatever it is, you’re not yourself. You’re not thinking clearly.’

‘My thoughts are clearer than they’ve ever been, my friend. For years all I’ve wanted is glory and honour, and all it’s ever brought me has been pain and loss. And I believe my father has changed, too. He regrets the past, I’m certain of it, and I’m going to give him the chance to redeem himself. So if you want to stop me, you’re going to have to kill me.’

There was a pause, broken only by the flapping of the north wind in their cloaks. Then Arceisius withdrew his sword and slipped it back into its scabbard.

‘Go then, traitor. And may the gods forgive you.’

Ajax sat hunched up on a boulder on the northernmost slopes of the bay. The myriad stars above him seemed to be reflected in the camp below, where thousands of fires guttered and glimmered in the breeze from the sea. The dark, countless shapes of the galleys stood out against the grey of the beach, where their high sterns were lapped by the moon-brushed breakers of the Aegean, charging and retreating again and again across the sand. The roaring of the waves that had hushed the dreams of every Greek for ten years seemed suddenly fresh and soothing to Ajax as he sat with whetstone in hand, repeatedly sweeping it across the blade of the sword Hector had given him after their duel, so many weeks before. All around him were the vast herds of sheep, goats, cattle and oxen that fed the Greek army. They had settled for the night and were lying close to each other for warmth, filling the air with the pungent smell of their bodies. Occasionally a beast would stir, causing a chain reaction of shifting and bleating, but Ajax took no notice of them. Instead, he kept scraping his whetstone over the gleaming blade and staring down at the grey mass of Agamemnon’s tent.

A large fire burned on the sand nearby, sending a column of spark-filled smoke into the air. Black outlines could be seen against the flames, busy jointing and carving up a score of carcasses for the feast that was taking place inside. Every king, prince and captain in the army had been invited to celebrate the end of the official mourning period for Achilles; all of the chief Greeks would be inside, cramming food into their mouths as if Achilles had never existed. But for Ajax, the mourning period was not yet over. When the messenger had arrived with Agamemnon’s invitation, Ajax had refused even to acknowledge his presence. How dare Agamemnon ask him to attend his banquet after he had denied him Achilles’s armour, which was his by blood right and by right of the fact that he was the greatest warrior in the whole army? And no doubt Menelaus, Nestor and the others would all be there to gloat over his defeat! They hated him to a man, jealous of his strength and ferocity in battle, and the fact that he had always covered himself in greater glory than the rest of them combined. What was worse, he could not stand the thought of being in the presence of Odysseus, who would doubtless be showing off Achilles’s armour and taking every opportunity to remind Ajax of his victory. A victory for injustice and nothing more.

Ajax swiped the whetstone over the blade one final time, then returned it to the small leather pouch that hung from his belt. He held the sword up and watched the faint light of the full moon cascade down its length. It was a good sword and a far greater token of glory than the armour Odysseus had been awarded, for at least Hector had given it to him in honour of his fighting prowess. Now he would use both sword and prowess to show the rest of the Greeks that he was not to be dismissed lightly or made a mockery of. He slid down from the rock and strode determinedly through the long grass, an angry sneer contorting his features.