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

Because of his heightened senses, Eperitus suffered more than anyone. He could almost feel the pain of each wailing cry and the reek of the wound seemed to fill every corner of his brain. So it was with great relief that he accompanied Odysseus to the altar and helped him to sacrifice the lamb to Athena. But as they hastened away from the plateau to the ramp that led down to the beach, someone staggered from the shade of the small copse and collapsed at the side of the road. It was Philoctetes.

‘Odysseus,’ he pleaded, stretching out his arm towards the Ithacan king.

Odysseus removed the strip of cloth from his face and ran over to kneel at the archer’s side.

‘What is it, Philoctetes?’

‘Odysseus, promise me you won’t let Achilles kill me. He and Patroclus won’t be satisfied until I’m dead, but I’ve a part to play in this war yet, I know it. Give me your word.’

‘You have it, my friend,’ Odysseus replied, his voice strained as he tried not to gag on the awful stench. ‘I’ll do whatever I can.’

The council of war was held on the beach below the palace. A double circle of benches had been set out in the shingle and around the perimeter was a ring of torches, flames twisting and flickering vigorously in the breeze from the sea. The foam-edged waves crashed repeatedly against the shoreline and the night air was filled with the voices of the Greek leaders and their captains as they arrived, talking at an exaggerated volume in an attempt to drown out the constant groans from the top of the cliff. There were slaves aplenty, rushing here and there with wine and food, and a large force of Agamemnon’s bodyguard stood on watch all around.

Eventually only one place remained to be filled – a single, high-backed chair positioned at the western edge of the circle. This had been reserved for Agamemnon, who appeared at last, striding confidently through a gap that had been left in the benches opposite, his blood-red cloak flowing behind him. He turned as he reached the chair and looked at the torch-lit faces. On his chest was the ornate breastplate given to him by King Cinyras, and in his hand he held the staff of authority that Hephaistos had made for Zeus long ago.

‘Let the council begin,’ he announced as his bodyguard formed a tighter ring around the outer edge of the circle. ‘Nestor, myself and others have discussed plans for the invasion of Ilium and the destruction of the city of Troy, and thereby the rescue of Helen, queen of Sparta. These plans are to be laid before the council now so that every man here will know his part in the coming attack and its aftermath. This is not a debate, though questions will be permitted. King Nestor?’

Nestor rose from the bench beside Agamemnon and took the staff from his hands. As he turned to address the council, Eperitus looked with hate-filled eyes towards the King of Men. It was the first time he had seen him since the day of the sacrifice, when he was bent in grief across the body of the innocent girl he had just slain. Then he had been wild-eyed and driven by evil intent, his courage bolstered by wine and his mind twisted with insanity. Now, though, the old Agamemnon seemed to have returned. His red cloak and white tunic were smooth and spotless, his long brown hair neatly combed and twisted into a tail behind his neck; his beard had been precisely clipped to the outline of his handsome, impassive face, and as he sat back in his throne-like chair he wore an air of confidence and unassailable power. Were it not for the dark circles around his eyes and the grey in his hair, he could have been the same self-assured, handsome king who had convened the council of war in Sparta a decade before.

He rested his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, the elbow of which was propped on the arm of his chair, and scanned the assembled kings with his cold blue eyes. Finally his gaze rested deliberately on Eperitus, and the two men looked at each other across the arena, Agamemnon hiding his dark thoughts behind a screen of impassivity and Eperitus barely able to conceal his distaste. Then Nestor stepped forward and raised his arms.

‘Friends,’ he began. ‘Brothers! We have amassed the greatest fleet in the history of man. Our ranks contain the fiercest warriors ever to fight in the same army. The shores of Ilium are within sight! And yet the Trojans sleep peacefully in their beds, dreaming of their women and the wealth they have in plentiful supply. But tomorrow . . .’ Nestor clenched his fist and stared with fiery eyes at them all. ‘But very soon we will turn their dreams into nightmares. Soon we will drive the prows of our ships onto their beaches and teach them all about the ferocity of Greek revenge. Their high towers will burn with Greek fire, and their blood will run in the streets. Their gold and women will belong to us, and Helen will be free!’

There was a huge roar from the benches and stamping of feet on the shingle. Nestor raised his hands for silence.

‘But battles and wars are not won by courage and skill alone. There must be a strategy, and the right tactics need to be employed. The Trojan army have to be drawn out from the comfort of their city walls and destroyed, or the swift war we desire will become a long siege. Several of us have spent many days discussing how . . .’

Nestor fell quiet and looked across at Achilles, who had risen from his bench and walked out into the centre of the circle.

‘Lord Achilles?’ Nestor asked.

Achilles bowed his head to the old man before continuing. ‘King Nestor, how can any of us be expected to listen to talk of strategy and tactics with that noise going on?’

He signalled with his thumb over his shoulder, and as if in answer a long, agonized wailing sailed out from the cliff top above. A murmur of agreement came from the benches.

‘Something must be done about Philoctetes,’ Achilles continued. ‘His constant moaning and the stench of his wound are becoming a concern to the men. We can endure it, if that’s what is required of us as leaders, but you can’t ask the army to put up with it. It’s already being said that this is a bad omen for the war, and you know how superstitious soldiers can be.’

‘And what do you suggest, my friend?’ Nestor responded. ‘As soon as Machaon and Podaleirius arrived I sent them to tend Philoctetes’s wound, but even they could do nothing for him. They tried every unguent and poultice known to their craft, without effect. In their opinion the snake that bit him must have been sent by a god, for the wound is unnaturally painful and resistant to healing. There’s nothing we can do, Achilles.’

‘Nothing?’ Achilles asked. He strode up to the old king and held his hand out for the staff, then turned to face the council. ‘Is there nothing we can do to put an end to this man’s terrible pain, as well as our own suffering from the noise of it? Nothing ? I would suggest there is. If he were a horse or a favourite dog, we’d kill him.’

‘You cannot simply kill the man,’ said Agamemnon calmly. He remained sitting, but a single sweeping look from his cold eyes silenced the cacophony of competing voices that had erupted from the benches. ‘For one thing, the wound isn’t fatal: this would be no mercy killing, as if he had been struck down in the midst of battle and was soon to die. For another, we cannot begin this war by murdering a Greek, least of all the leader of a faction. Before long we would be at each others’ throats again, just like it used to be. And unless we remain united we will never be victorious against Troy.’

‘He may be a leader,’ called a voice from the benches, ‘but he’s not one of us. He’s not a noble.’