Glyn Iliffe - The Gates Of Troy (Adventures of Odysseus)

Odysseus was the first of the Ithacans to strike, slipping inside the thrust of a spear and pushing his sword into his assailant’s heart. Ripping the shield from the man’s grip, he stepped across his body and hacked at the point of another spear, cutting the shaft in half and then bringing the edge of his blade back up across the face of the enemy soldier. The man stumbled backwards, his fingers clutching at the furrow that had been opened through his nose and cheekbones.

Gripping both swords, Eperitus charged into the gap created by his king and stood on a pile of bodies, slashing with determined force at the hedge of spear-points before him. He knocked them aside with ease and leapt down to run the point of one sword into the stomach of a young spearman, while with the other he chopped through the wrist of a man who had lunged at him with an axe. Without pausing to finish him off, he bore forward into the crowd of soldiers, quickly sending another to his death with a stab through the throat. Glancing to his right, he saw Polites crash into the enemy ranks and begin tossing men about like young trees caught in a hurricane. It was clear to Eperitus from the clumsy, inexperienced efforts of the islanders that they were little more than a poorly trained militia, bolstered by townsfolk armed with improvised weapons. The only thing that stopped them from breaking and running was their greater fear of the bearded giant who stood at their rear.

At that moment, he bellowed an order and with relief in their eyes the defenders pulled back to form a new line behind him. The Greeks allowed them to retreat, using the lull in battle to arm themselves with the shields and spears of the fallen. Only Achilles refrained. He could see that the enemy commander wore no armour and carried only a club of colossal proportions, so to have picked up a shield would have seemed cowardly to his proud eyes. Then the man’s broad, flat face split into a mocking smile and with a slow gesture of his shovel-sized hand he beckoned Achilles forward. With his sword hanging loosely at his side, the Phthian prince picked his way across the carpet of bodies to meet the challenge.

‘Stand aside, Achilles,’ Philoctetes called from the rock where he was standing. ‘I can take him with one shot and the battle will be over.’

‘And let you try to claim another victory you haven’t earned?’ Achilles scoffed without taking his eyes off his opponent. ‘I give you my word, Philoctetes – if he falls to one of your arrows I’ll make sure you’re the next to die.’

‘No, my lord,’ cried another voice. ‘You must let Philoctetes kill him.’

Achilles turned to see Mnemon stumbling up to the top of the ramp, clutching his wounded head, but at the same moment a warning shout from Eperitus made him leap aside. An instant later the gigantic club swept down on the spot where Achilles had been standing, splitting the sun-baked earth and sending up a haze of dust. Achilles was quick to launch himself at his opponent, knowing he would not be able to lift the heavy club in time. The enemy champion released the weapon and met Achilles’s attack with his fist, punching him in the face and sending him flying backwards to land among the pile of slain warriors. With a speed that belied his size, he stooped down to pick up his club and stumped forward, intending to crush his enemy’s head with a single blow.

The giant’s punch would have killed many men outright, but Achilles quickly regained his senses and rolled aside as the great wooden club thumped down into the heaped bodies, breaking bones like kindling. He sprang to his feet and rushed with terrifying speed at the enemy champion. His lips were pulled back in a hate-filled sneer – his brain barely registering the shouts of Mnemon in the background – but as he lunged with the point of his sword his target moved swiftly aside and swung his club round to cleave the air above Achilles’s head. Achilles ducked and edged backwards, and at the same moment he heard Mnemon shouting.

‘Don’t, my lord. That’s King Tenes. Don’t kill him!’

The giant warrior, hearing his own name called, glanced towards the injured Mnemon. Seeing his opportunity, Achilles rushed forward and kicked the club out of his hand, then with a swift jab sank the point of his sword into the huge, hair-covered chest, piercing the heart. Tenes was only able to gasp with surprise, before collapsing backwards with a thud that shook the ground and sent a cloud of dust into the air.

As the mass of defenders gasped in shock, Achilles walked over to their fallen king and placed a foot on his chest, leaning forward to study his victim in more detail. Then he turned his gaze on the men of Tenedos, who were eyeing him in terror and disbelief.

‘Boo!’ he shouted, and they flung down their weapons and ran back into the town.

‘Sir,’ said Mnemon, his voice shaking as he dragged himself toward ss his master. ‘Sir, I tried to warn you.’

Achilles looked at his servant, then around at the faces of his countrymen, mingled with the Ithacans and the unfamiliar men of Malia. Though the Malians were looking at him in amazement and awe, the Myrmidons were grim-faced and seemed somehow unhappy at their prince’s victory.

‘What is it, Mnemon?’ he sighed, irritated by the persistence of his servant in his moment of triumph.

Mnemon wrung his hands together and hesitated for a long while before speaking. ‘Sir, you’ve just killed King Tenes, a son of Apollo. By your mother’s prophecy, you’re now doomed to die at the hand of the god.’

Achilles stood and looked down at the stooping man before him. He took a deep breath, as if trying to contain his emotions, then drew back his sword.

‘Then I won’t be needing you any more, will I?’ he said, and swept his servant’s head from his shoulders.

Chapter Thirty

PHILOCTETES

Eperitus looked over the cliff edge at the massed ships of the fleet. Almost three quarters of the galleys that had left Aulis two weeks before were now gathered on the western side of Tenedos – their numbers constantly swelled by the piecemeal arrival of more stragglers – and a great traffic of small boats was weaving its way between them, ferrying men to and from the beach below the palace of King Tenes. Further out to the west, Eperitus could see the distant bulk of Lemnos, wide and blue in the bright sunshine, while slightly closer to the north-west was the island of Imbros. It was an unfamiliar seascape, but seemed pleasant enough under the blue skies of late summer.

He turned to the plateau where the battle had taken place. The town and palace beyond it were crawling with soldiers of almost every Greek state, scouring the buildings for any remaining loot or food that they could find. On the green slopes above the plateau were a large number of people – townsfolk and captured warriors – sitting and watching the pillaging of their homes as a dozen Myrmidons stood guard. Though their town had not been put to the torch, as was common in war, this was only because Nestor had ordered that its buildings be preserved for the wounded from the impending assault on Troy.

To one side of the plateau, three large mounds of rocks had been built. The largest marked the grave of the many enemies slain in the battle; a smaller one next to it covered the bodies of the Myrmidons and Malians who had died. The final mound had been built by Achilles himself in honour of King Tenes. It was a tribute to the giant warrior’s ferocity in battle, but even more than that, of course, it was a testament to Achilles’s own skill in defeating him.

Standing before the three mounds was a stone plinth, as high as a man’s stomach and as wide as he could stretch his arms. It had been dragged from a crude temple in the town to act as an altar, where the Greeks could sacrifice to the gods in thanks for their safe arrival at Tenedos and their first victory over the forces of Asia. The air around it was full of the sounds and smells of animals. Scores of sheep and goats were held fast by slaves and soldiers, while bowls of water were placed before them. Only the animals who bowed their heads to drink could be killed, as they were deemed to have nodded their consent to the sacrifice. Elsewhere, knives were being sharpened on whetstones and a large fire was being lit, where the fat-wrapped thighbones of the slain beasts could be burnt for the gods. Odysseus stood beside Eperitus with a black lamb across his shoulders, its ankles tied with leather cord to keep it from struggling.