The Chronicles of St Mary's Omnibus, page 70
We abandoned Site A as being too public. Too near the heavily guarded citadel. And we needed to be closer together. Just in case.
We eased back into Troy very carefully. First one pod, with me, Guthrie, and Peterson. We waited a day. No one tried to kill us. The second pod, Number Five, landed late at night, so in the morning, there were two of them.
Nothing happened.
We repeated ourselves three days later with Number Three, twenty yards away to the west, on the other side of the grove. No reaction. Finally, and with a certain amount of trepidation, we introduced a fourth, Number Six. So that was twelve of us here and I’d fretted over nothing because it was two days before anyone even turned up to investigate and then it was only a short, scrawny, grubby boy with a shock of dark hair and ears like the wing mirrors on an old Beetle I’d once owned. Helios had grown up.
And if Helios had grown, then so had his sister Helike, who must now be around fourteen or fifteen years old. Rather old to be unmarried, especially as she was such a pretty girl. Helios, poor lad, had been behind the door when good looks were being allocated. We discovered later, mostly through the medium of mime, that she had been briefly married to a soldier, an archer I think, who had been killed around six months before and, as was the custom, she had returned to her father and both children now worked full-time in their father’s tavern.
There were a number of soldiers billeted at the tavern but they never bothered us. In their world, people came – people went. People lived – people died. There was a war on. No one cared. There were other things to worry about.
There was sickness in the city, for a start. With so many people jammed so tightly together, of course, there would be. And food was short. It was there, but never quite enough. Water was not rationed, but soldiers stood at every well. It was all good-natured enough, but no one took more than their fair share.
The old women had disappeared from the streets. They had nothing to sell. People hoarded any surplus food they happened to have. No one was starving, but the children had that pinched look. There was no running around now. They and everyone who could be spared from fighting or manning the walls worked in the fields, wringing every last mouthful of food from the exhausted soil.
But if the Trojans were suffering, the Greeks had it even worse. They were in the tenth year of a siege that was going nowhere. Where was the promised plunder? The spoils of war? The women?
I think the tenth year marked some sort of watershed for them. They didn’t want to play any more. They just wanted to take their toys and go home.
We heard it every night. Their shouted arguments drifted over the city walls in the still night air. And with the rising sun, one, maybe two ships would up-anchor and, accompanied by jeers and insults from those remaining, row silently away.
I don’t actually know how Agamemnon kept them there. Apart from the lack of any military progress of any kind, their campsite was filthy. There are only so many latrines you can dig over ten years. Broken gear and piles of stinking rubbish littered the shoreline. The shallows were thick and oily with sewage. When the wind was in the right direction, we could smell it from Troy. The conditions must have been appalling.
They’d built their own famous wall – the ditch with sharpened stakes to protect themselves from the Trojan chariots – and they squatted sullenly behind it. The days slipped away – as did Agamemnon’s troops.
The Troad, that once fertile plain, was devastated. Gone were the small farms, the huddles of houses, the neatly tilled fields, the olive groves, the woods. Everything had been flattened under the enormous weight of the opposing armies. The trees were long gone. The crops trampled back into the soil. The herds driven back to safety inside Troy itself.
Yes, the Trojans were suffering, but they were on their home ground. The Greeks, trapped on their narrow beach and with their backs to the sea, were becoming desperate.
Something had to give.
Blame Homer with his long descriptions of aristeia – personal combat – in which admiring soldiers from both sides supposedly took a break from the fighting to watch their champions duke it out. In fact, the old boy was a bit of dead loss. Wonderful poet – crap war correspondent. For a start, there was very little formal fighting. The Greeks, far from home, were more concerned with keeping themselves supplied, spending long periods further and further away from Troy as they stripped the Troad and surrounding areas of everything they could find.
So nine years had drifted by in inconclusive sea raids and the odd skirmish outside the walls, with nothing to show for it.
But now, now we were well into the tenth year and, suddenly, everything changed.
It came out of the blue. One day we were on the walls, lethargically watching the ten-year stalemate – and the next day, all hell broke loose.
We were moving into the season of the hot winds. Winds that blew dust into every last nook and cranny. Dust that stuck to sweating skin and drove us insane. Dust that got into our clothes, our beds, our food, and under our eyelids. Winds that blew hot air into our faces no matter in which direction we faced. Winds that irritated and niggled and maddened and we all became snappy and fractious, even with each other. Nothing personal. It was just that time of year. The nearest equivalent is blowing a hot hair-dryer into your face twenty-four hours a day.
Whether the winds were a contributing factor, I don’t know. Probably. But today was the beginning of the end. Today, although we didn’t yet know it, Achilles would finally emerge from his tent, insane for blood and revenge, and all hell would break loose.
As Homer describes it, Agamemnon and Achilles had quarrelled over the division of their booty. Achilles had a massive strop and withdrew to his tent, from whence he refused to budge. Think petulant teenager. The war was going badly for the Greeks, so Patroclus, his friend and countryman, had stolen his armour and led Achilles’ Myrmidons into battle himself. He was immediately engaged and killed by Hector, who, along with everyone else, was under the impression he had killed Achilles.
Sadly, we’d missed those events, but today Achilles’ need for revenge would overcome his grief and remorse. Today, he would re-join the battle.
We didn’t know it yet, but a lot of people were going to die today.
It was a normal day. I was on the walls with Peterson. Kal and Markham were further along, trying to estimate how many more ships Agamemnon had lost during the night. At this rate, the Trojans didn’t need to do anything but wait it out. So what took Hector and his army outside the walls was anyone’s guess. Homer puts it down to godly intervention. And for all I know it may have been.
Trumpets sounded around the town and voices were raised both inside and outside the walls.
Within the city, excitement boiled in the streets. People raced to the walls. Something was happening. And it was happening now.
It was as we were jostling for position on the walls that Roberts nudged me.
‘Look up.’
I glanced up and to my right.
There, on the walls above the Scaean Gate, exactly as Homer had recounted, Hector, the Trojan hero, was talking quietly to his wife, Andromache, who carried their infant son, Astyanax. They stood a little apart from everyone else, their heads close together. We were too far away to hear the words, but their body language was eloquent.
They were saying goodbye.
For me – for all of us – it was the most amazing moment. Legend springing to life right in front of our eyes. Because, if Homer had got this bit right … then this was the day when man-murdering Achilles left his tent to do what he did best …
I let my imagination roam …
With his back to the sea, Agamemnon would be issuing his final orders.
Armoured Achilles would be emerging from his quarters, intent on avenging the death of his friend Patroclus.
Up on Mount Olympus, home of the gods, Zeus would be informing them they could fight for whichever side they pleased. There were no holds barred today.
And here, in Troy, Hector was taking leave of his wife and son, both of them knowing in their hearts that this day would be his last and that Troy was doomed.
She clung to him, unable to let him go. He touched her cheek – a small gesture of comfort and courage.
The trumpets sounded again. Hector pulled on his helmet with its unique dyed red horsehair plume and his little boy cried out in fear. Gone was the loving family man and in his place stood Hector the warrior, the hero of Troy, magnificent in his bronze armour, decorated with intricate gold patterns.
The gate opened. Long lines of Trojans marched out. The Greeks lined up to meet them.
It had begun.
Achilles led his screaming Myrmidons directly at the main body of Trojan soldiers who raised their shields and spears. The two sides met with a roar and crash of metal that shook the ground.
Battles are nowhere near as neat and tidy as Homer would have us believe; and most of the time we had no idea who was who. All we could do was discreetly record as much as we could and sort it all out later with the aid of slow-motion replays. I’d been strict about this. The temptation is to forget the recorder and just watch events unfold. I’d described, in horrible detail, what would happen to anyone who forgot why we were here. I had people stationed up and down the walls and two more at the Scaean Gate, as well. I could do no more.
The slaughter was horrific. Vicious and violent. Brutal. Massive. It was hard to see how anyone could survive. Men fought hand to hand, face-to-face, swinging swords, stabbing with spears, even throwing rocks. They clubbed each other with stones and when they ran out of weapons entirely, punched, kicked, and head-butted.
The tide of battle swept across the plain, first one way, and then another. Clouds of dust hung in the air, catching in our throats and making our eyes sting. I’ve fought. I know how thirsty combat can make you. I could only try to imagine how those shrieking, roaring soldiers must feel, baking in their armour under the pitiless sun, choking in their own dust and sweat.
Not that it appeared to slow anyone down. Everywhere, arms rose and fell tirelessly. Some discarded their shields and fought with a sword in either hand. Others used their shields to protect the archers, giving them time to pick their targets.
Occasionally, very occasionally, someone would pull themselves out of the melee and limp back to their own lines, but only very occasionally. In this sort of fighting, you were on your feet or you were dead. There was no halfway house today.
I heeded my own instructions – for once – and kept my attention rigorously on what was happening in front of me, but all the time I was waiting … waiting for some event – big or small – that I could recognise, say ‘there’ – and use this as a starting point to identifying those around me.
And then I did.
A huge skirmish was taking place across the plain, to the south-west. A handful of Greek soldiers were laying ferociously into a larger Trojan force. If this was who I thought it was, then this was the man-killer, himself.
Terrified and overwhelmed, the Trojan force split, half of them racing back towards Troy and the other half falling back into the River Scamander itself, maybe hoping to find some safety there.
Not so. A magnificently armoured figure roared commands and urged his men on. Could this be – please let it be – it must be – Achilles. I’d always pictured him as a giant. A colossal killing machine in golden armour, but even with his distinctive black horsehair crest, he stood no taller than anyone else. And his armour was of bronze, just like everyone else. He was just a man. But he fought like a god. Roaring like a bull, he plunged into the water after the fleeing Trojans, striking left and right.
No one escaped.
They say: ‘The river ran red with blood,’ and it did that day. So many bodies lay in the water that they blocked the flow of the river, which backed up, flooded its banks, and began to change its course.
Nor did the killing stop there.
Back on the dry and dusty plain, tireless Achilles once again gathered men to himself and set off in relentless pursuit of more Trojans. And Hector.
I didn’t know where Hector was. Or Paris. Or Deiphobos, or any of the Trojan generals, but the whole world could see Achilles in his fury, slaughtering Trojans by the truckload and working his way ever nearer to the Gate of Troy.
One brave warrior stepped forward – it might have been Agenor, Antenor’s son – and threw his spear, which caught Achilles a glancing blow, just below his well-armoured knee.
Whoever it was, he wisely didn’t hang around and was off like a deer with a roaring and completely uninjured Achilles in hot pursuit. What happened to Agenor, if indeed it was he, I couldn’t see in all the dust, but a hundred Trojans used Achilles’ absence to try to cram themselves in through the gate as fast as they could go. There was no dignity. No chivalry. No honour. They fought and elbowed and shoved in their eagerness to be within the safety of their own walls. To be as far as they could from the big, blond killing-machine outside.
All except one.
I’d found Hector. Exactly where Homer said he’d be.
In the distance, Achilles abandoned the pursuit of Agenor and raced back across the plain, still on fire with his need to avenge the death of his friend.
With one voice, the people along the walls shouted a warning. Even Priam, the king himself, rose to his feet and gestured.
But Hector stood firm. His ornate bronze armour was heavily dented and his red horsetail streaked with dust. But he hefted his bronze and wicker shield, planted his feet firmly. And waited.
It’s not easy to stand quietly and watch someone die. Because that’s what we do and I wonder about us, sometimes. We were about to witness one of the greatest duels of the Ancient World. Hector and Achilles. The hero of Troy against the greatest killer of the age.
Silence fell.
The thud of Achilles’ footsteps was plainly audible even from my distance.
I craned my neck for a better view. The woman next to me, whose breath reeked of garlic and had the worst teeth I’d ever seen, pushed spitefully and said something nasty, but I was in no mood to give way. I jabbed back and muttered something very rude in German. One of the best languages there is for a really good curse.
Priam was joined by his wife Hecuba and then by Andromache, who turned her head and spoke. The nurse took Astyanax away. He wouldn’t see his father die today. It didn’t matter. He had only days left to live, anyway.
Troy’s time was running out.
That was when it hit me. Hard. This was not some remote event to be studied, picked over, and analysed. This was real. These were people’s lives. These people existed. They loved. They suffered. They were all about to die. And we were going to watch.
Whether the sight of his family, standing together, and pleading for his return was too much for even Hector to endure, I don’t know. He turned his head to look at the fast approaching Achilles, then back to his family again. His wife lifted her arm as if to plead with him, then let it fall. Hector looked back to Achilles and then suddenly took off, back towards the gates.
Which had closed.
All around the walls people screamed a warning, but there was no time to get them open.
Unprepared, no weapon drawn, and with Achilles close behind him, Hector did the only thing he could.
He ran.
He did not run three times around the walls as legend claims. He ran away from them, racing across the plain, hurdling the bodies of the slain, and dodging broken bits of chariot and discarded armour, as Achilles, roaring his fury, chased along behind.
Who knows how far and how fast they would have run? Achilles could not catch Hector and with his opponent between him and the walls, Hector could not get back to Troy.
He skidded suddenly to a halt, sliding in the dust and raising a cloud of it around him. Another figure stood nearby with two precious javelins. Now he had a fighting chance. Deiphobos had not abandoned his brother.
In the Iliad, Deiphobos is really that grey-eyed bitch, Athena, who leads Hector on and then abandons him to the wrath of Achilles.
The encounter was short and brutal. There were no fine speeches. No godly interventions.
Achilles threw his spear.
Hector ducked and it sailed harmlessly over his head.
Straightening, he threw his own spear. Achilles caught it square on his famous shield with a clang we could hear all the way back in Troy and deflected it away.
Hector turned for his second spear. But Deiphobos, maybe fearing for his own safety, had disappeared. Hector was abandoned and completely alone. Just as the Iliad describes.
The groan could be heard all over Troy.
Did he know? Did Hector know in his heart that he could not escape? In his last moments, did the gods grant him that knowledge? That his city could not escape? That his people could not escape?
He didn’t hesitate for one moment.
Casting aside his heavy round shield, he pulled out his sword, flourished it above his head, threw back his head to shout his last defiant battle cry, and hurled himself straight at Achilles …
… who stood his ground, head on one side, considering … then slowly, lazily even, lifted his spear and stabbed Hector a great blow in the neck.
A huge fountain of bright red blood arced through the air.
The champion of Troy fell on his back in the dust.
Not a sound could be heard on the walls. Not even from the watching Greek lines.
Hector lay in the dust in a spreading pool of red, twitching slightly. Not yet dead.
Achilles tilted back his head, clenched his fists, and roared his triumph to the gods, to the ghost of Patroclus, to the city of Troy, to the whole world.
With Hector still not dead, he stripped him naked, slashed his ankles and threaded them through with leather thongs. He tied the ends to his chariot and set off around the walls of Troy, with Hector’s still-living body bumping along behind him, leaving a long scarlet trail in the dust.
