The Gates Of Troy (59 page)

‘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.’

Shouts of agreement followed and Achilles, sensing he was gaining the support of a large part of the council, turned to Agamemnon.

‘It’s true – Philoctetes doesn’t have the blood of gods or kings in his veins. He was just a shepherd boy when Heracles awarded him his magical bow and arrows, and it’s only by that single chance that he has been given honour and power in his own country. By right, Medon should be leading the men of Malia, not Philoctetes. At least
he
is of noble birth.’

Achilles signalled to a short, burly warrior with leathery skin and a hardened look in his eye. Medon rose from his seat and looked about at the ring of faces.

‘Achilles has already spoken to me about this,’ he said in a low, hoarse voice, ‘and I’ve agreed to end Philoctetes’s misery and take command in his place.’

‘How noble of you, Medon,’ said Agamemnon sarcastically, this time rising from his seat and taking two steps forward. ‘But isn’t this more to do with your anger, Achilles, at losing the race to Tenedos? Because of your hurt pride, you would have an innocent man slaughtered like a dumb beast.’

Achilles’s hand flew to the pommel of his sword. ‘That’s a fine accusation to make,’ he retorted, his face red with anger, ‘when
you
only awarded the victory to Philoctetes because I tried to prevent the sacrifice of Iphigenia. And how can you accuse me of wanting to kill Philoctetes like a dumb beast when
you
murdered your own daughter in cold blood!’

Suddenly Agamemnon’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, tugging the blade free of its scabbard. Achilles’s own weapon was quick to meet it and, with a loud slither of metal, the razor sharp edges grated against each other. Then a third sword swept upwards and knocked them apart, and a moment later Eperitus placed himself between the two men.

‘Sheathe your weapons,’ he commanded. ‘Use your anger on the Trojans, my lords, not each other.’

Agamemnon was the first to step back, his cool exterior quickly reimposing itself.

‘Come, Achilles,’ he said. ‘Eperitus is right, there’s no profit in squabbling among ourselves.’

Achilles hesitated, then slid his sword back into his sheath. ‘And Philoctetes?’ he persisted, eyeing the King of Men with poorly disguised anger. ‘What are we to do about him?’

‘Send him to Lemnos,’ Odysseus suggested, rising from his bench. After the bitter exchange between Agamemnon and Achilles, the King of Ithaca’s deep voice seemed calm and reassuring, filled with wisdom and justice. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for him here, and as Achilles rightly suggests he’ll only be an annoyance to the men. But there’s no need to kill the poor wretch; he deserves compassion, not murder. Instead, we should leave him on Lemnos for now and return for him when the war is over. Medon can have his wish to lead the Malians, on the condition he and his men share their plunder with Philoctetes.’

There was a chorus of agreement from the benches. Odysseus looked directly at Achilles, who after a few moments nodded and handed the speaker’s staff back to Nestor. Though he had seemed determined to see Philoctetes dead, he was content with the lesser victory of having the archer marooned for the duration of the war. He returned to his bench and sat down.

Agamemnon also returned to his seat, but not before he had turned to Eperitus and given him a curt nod of thanks for his intervention. For his own part, Eperitus felt an uneasy mixture of loathing and satisfaction. He would rather have allowed Achilles’s proud anger to strike Agamemnon dead – a fitting end for an abhorrent man. But he was honour-bound to defend the King of Men, and a small corner of his mind took pleasure from the knowledge that Clytaemnestra’s revenge would be much more terrible than a swift thrust of Achilles’s sword.

He returned to his seat next to Odysseus as Nestor stepped back into the centre of the council. The golden staff gleamed in his hand, the jewels upon its head glittering in the torchlight.

‘Tomorrow, then, Odysseus will transport Philoctetes to Lemnos while we rest and gather our strength. A sizeable landing party will seize the bay a little further up the coast, as already planned, and anybody found there or on the hills about it will be killed or taken prisoner. All shipping passing the bay is to be captured and held. Every measure has to be taken to prevent news of our arrival reaching King Priam. Then, the morning after, we attack.’

‘Curse you, Odysseus,’ Philoctetes hissed from the prow of the ship, where he had been laid with his arms and legs bound. By now he was exhausted from the pain of his wound and a night without sleep, and his voice was hoarse and weary. ‘Curse Achilles. Curse Agamemnon. Curse all Ithacans. And curse this damnable wound. Oh, in the name of all the gods, won’t you please kill me?’

‘It’s just not right,’ said Antiphus as he pulled back on his oar. His voice was muffled by the damp strip of cloth he wore to filter out the worst of the stench; all the crew had them. ‘I’ve never seen such archery. I don’t care how much he complains or how bad he smells, that man could hit Priam in the eye if he was on the loftiest tower in all Ilium. We should be taking him
to
the war, not
from
it.’

But Antiphus had few sympathizers on the galley, whose crew had been forced to endure the obnoxious Philoctetes since before dawn that morning. They had spent the night listening to his screams of pain while he was on the cliff top on Tenedos, so to be confined with him on the claustrophobic deck of a ship had driven them almost beyond the limit of their endurance. Only the knowledge that they would soon be rid of him prevented them from throwing him overboard.

Odysseus ignored Antiphus and peered out through the thick mists, looking for rocks as he steered the galley into the lee of a promontory that thrust out from the eastern edge of the island. The sail had been furled and the crew were busy at the oars. The only sound was the trickle of water running off the oar blades and the occasional cawing of gulls in the air above. The sun was in the sky, but they could only sense its presence as a concentrated point of whiteness in the dense fog that enveloped everything.

‘This will do,’ Odysseus announced, catching a glimpse of a rocky shoreline to his right. ‘Throw out the anchor stones and make the boat ready.’

Two loud splashes followed, while on the benches an argument broke out between the oarsmen about who should fetch the boat. Clearly, no one wanted the job of rowing Philoctetes to shore.

‘Stop that bickering at once,’ Eperitus snapped. ‘Arceisius and Eurybates, get the boat ready; Eurylochus and Polites, bring Philoctetes – and be gentle with him. And you can fetch his bow and arrows, Antiphus.’

The boat was lowered into the water and the two oarsmen took their places with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Eurylochus shot a hateful glance at Eperitus as he moved with deliberate slowness to the prow, then stood by as the huge arms of Polites scooped Philoctetes up from the deck and carried him to the side. The rest of the crew turned away in disgust as he passed, pressing their damp face-cloths closer to their noses. Only Antiphus showed any enthusiasm, running to fetch the magnificent weapons that had once belonged to Heracles and handling them with reverence and admiration.

Once Polites had tenderly lowered the unhappy figure of Philoctetes into the small boat and clambered out again – seemingly ignorant of the string of curses that were directed at him – Odysseus and Eperitus stepped into the small, unsteady vessel and sat down. Antiphus begged to be allowed to join them, and it was with great relief and pleasure that Eurybates surrendered his place at the oars to him. Once Antiphus was aboard, they pushed off into the mist and rowed slowly towards the shore. All about them sharp black rocks poked out of the water and more than once they felt the bottom of the boat scraping across stone. Then they reached a low, flat shelf of rock pitted with little pools of water and criss-crossed with weathered cracks.