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

Eperitus leaned forward and peered into the mist. The Ithacans were on the far left of the fleet, with the Spartans in the centre and the Myrmidons on the right; but the vanguard was made up of forty ships from Thessaly, led by the brothers Protesilaus and Podarces. Odysseus and Achilles were deliberately holding back, conscious of Thetis’s prophecy that the first man to land would also be the first to die. The fact that Menelaus was not spearheading the attack, though, could only mean Achilles had also shared his mother’s words of doom with the king of Sparta. Then, as Eperitus pondered these things, calls broke out from the leading ships and moments later a line of low black hills appeared through the swirling fog. The sight of land brought excitement to the Ithacan benches, but a barked order from Odysseus quickly restored silence.

The mist was dissipating before the seaborne wind to reveal a spur of land, beyond which was a broad harbour filled with warships. The sight of the high-sided galleys brought a shock of fear and tension to the approaching Greeks. Shields were pulled from backs and spears readied; archers fitted arrows to their bows and gathered in the prows of each ship, ready to fire at the Trojan crews; long lances for fighting ship-to-ship were passed forward. Then they saw the sails were furled and spars stowed. The Trojan fleet was sleeping, and with a mixture of relief and delight they realized their attack was not expected.

Suddenly the attention of every man was drawn away from the dormant enemy vessels to a new sight. Rising above the skeins of fog beyond the mouth of the bay, at last, were the battlements and towers of Troy that they had feared and dreamed of for so long. They shone white in the sunlight that was now breaking through the fine clouds, and here and there fierce flashes of bronze reflected from the weapons of the sentinels that stood on the walls. And as they looked on in awe, horns began calling from the city – deep, sad notes that rolled towards the Greeks like a dirge.

‘They’ve seen us,’ Odysseus announced.

Eperitus could see the king’s knuckles whiten as they gripped the shaft of his spear, but if he felt fear or doubt as they approached the enemy harbour he showed no sign of it. Eperitus, however, felt his mouth grow dry and his stomach stir with nerves. His armour was suddenly heavy as it hung about him, as if the familiar leather and bronze had been transformed to lead. The high fortifications that he had looked up at in admiration on his first visit now seemed menacing and insurmountable. This was the city for which his daughter had been brutally slain, and for which many other terrible sacrifices would soon be required. For the sake of its walls, Odysseus was doomed to spend twenty years away from his beloved family and homeland. Even the great Achilles would perish, forfeiting the sweet joys of mortal existence to die in battle and gain eternity through the songs of bards. Many others would die also, to crowd Hades’s halls with their miserable spectres.

And yet few rued the war, whatever their rank or ability. For the lowborn soldier it was a chance for plunder and riches exceeding anything he could earn with the plough or the fishing net. For the professional warrior there was the exhilaration of battle, for which he had trained most of his life. For those of noble blood, immortal renown called, while for the high-minded there was the hope of restoring the pride of Greece. Agamemnon would fulfil his desire for power over the Greeks and the subjugation of their enemies, and his brother would regain the wondrous wife without whom his life had lost its meaning.

From the first rumours of war, Eperitus had been enticed by the prospect of battle. The love of combat burned in his blood like a fire that could only be quenched by slaughter; and the fire was intensified by his desire to make a name for himself, a name that would outlive his brief time on earth. But since Mycenae, he had realized that such a desire was empty without someone to fight for, someone to cherish his memory and pass it down to others. That hope had perished with the death of Iphigenia, and he knew her loss had changed him. Once, his craving to abandon himself to danger had been driven by a nagging need to prove himself, to survive by the skill and strength that he possessed. Now his joy of battle was powered by other motives: to serve and protect Odysseus and ensure his safe return to Penelope and Telemachus; to honour the memory of Iphigenia, who had always looked on him as a fearsome warrior; and finally a snarling lust to avenge her death. And since he was sworn to protect Agamemnon, it was the soldiers of Troy who would have to bear the brunt of his vengeance.

The Thessalian ships were now pouring through the wide mouth of the harbour. Men appeared on the decks of the Trojan galleys, shocked at the sudden appearance of the Greek fleet. Within moments they were lowering boats into the water and rowing for the shore, while others jumped overboard and swam in their desperation to escape. A few of the Thessalian archers took hopeful shots at the half-naked figures, but the distance was still too great and the arrows clattered harmlessly off the decks or sank into the calm blue waters. By now the Ithacans, Spartans and Myrmidons were cramming into the entrance to the bay. There was a cacophony of noise as, in their haste to reach the undefended beach, hulls scraped against each other and men shouted warnings or angry threats. Then a series of new horn calls erupted from the towers of Ilium, high, quick notes that made men’s blood race and their breath quicken. Every head turned towards the city and a moment later the gates burst open to release a deluge of cavalry. The Greeks stood and watched in excited horror as file after file of horsemen galloped out from the Scaean Gate to the south of the city, forming long lines before the western walls. Ranks of spearmen and archers exited at the same time, pouring onto the plain like an army of irritated ants whose nest had been disturbed.

On the ships, kings and captains bellowed orders to their crews and the decks burst back into life as soldiers readied their arms and sailors manoeuvred their craft into lines. But the Thessalians, who had already reformed, did not wait for their allies and surged forward to the attack. Foremost among them was the ship of Protesilaus, who had ordered his crew to lower their oars and get the galley ashore as quickly as possible. The sibling competition between Protesilaus and Podarces was well known to the Greeks, and it was no surprise to see the ship of the younger brother follow the example of the elder and make for the beach with all speed. But Protesilaus would not be caught. He wanted the honour of being first to land on Trojan soil and now he was visible to the whole fleet, standing alone at the prow of his ship as it raced towards the sand. He was a tall man whose head was covered in ringlets of black hair tinged with grey that hung down to his shoulders. Though his shield was on his arm and he wore breastplate and greaves, his helmet had been cast aside so that all could see him and know who was leading the attack against Troy.

The rest of the forty Thessalian ships followed in the wake of their leaders, while behind them the lines of Myrmidons, Spartans and Ithacans – four deep already, with more still entering the mouth of the harbour – began to move into the attack. But the Trojans were racing out to meet them. Hundreds of horsemen, the ground thudding beneath the hooves of their mounts, poured forward across the plain, the early morning sunshine glinting on their raised spear-points. They were followed by dozens of chariots, each pulled by a pair of horses and carrying a driver and an archer or spearman in the light cars that bounced behind. Finally, row upon row of infantry and swarms of archers came running after them, a mighty roar of defiance thundering out from their throats to fill the air above the plain.