The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

‘Shots worthy of Apollo himself,’ Diomedes commented with relief, patting Philoctetes and Teucer on their shoulders. ‘Now stay here while I fetch the others. And shoot anyone who approaches the gates.’

He stood to leave, but a hissed warning from Philoctetes brought him back into the shadows. Once again, both bows sounded. Diomedes stared about in confusion, then caught sight of a body falling from the summit of the tower. It turned once in midair before hitting the ground with a crunch where the other corpses already lay. The Argive king scanned the tower and the broad parapets for more guards, but could see none. Then, with a quick nod of gratitude to the watchful archers, he turned again and headed back to where Little Ajax and the others were waiting. They saw him coming and went to meet him. Together they ran down to the gates, passing the humped shapes of many sleeping Trojans who would never now see the light of dawn. They passed Philoctetes and Teucer, still poised with arrows fitted, and sprinted the final stretch to the gates, as if afraid a company of warriors might leap out at the last moment and block their way. But no-one saw them as they jumped the pile of bodies and reached the wooden doors; no-one heard as they lifted away the bar and let it fall with a crash onto the cobblestones; and no-one cried out as they hauled the heavy portals back on their hinges to reveal the dark landscape beyond. And as they peered out into the gloom, no-one was there to meet them.

‘Where are they?’ Omeros asked. ‘Perhaps they didn’t see the signal. By all the gods, they must still be in the ships!’

Diomedes stared out at the land between the walls and the River Scamander, where the only feature was the sacred oak beneath which Achilles had fought and killed Hector. Had that really only happened in the spring, he thought, momentarily distracted. Was it now only the eighth month of the year? And where was the army, now that victory was so close? Had they missed the signal and, believing the occupants of the horse lost, set their sails towards Greece?

‘Agamemnon! Where are you?’ Little Ajax called. ‘The gates are open – what are you waiting for?’

There was desperation in the short, brutal warrior’s voice that made it carry out into the void. It filled Diomedes with the sudden fear he would rouse any nearby Trojans, and quickly he raised the point of his sword to Ajax’s throat.

‘Quiet, damn you!’ he hissed. ‘Are you trying to wake every soldier in Troy?’

In a deft move, Little Ajax twisted away from Diomedes’s blade and brought his own weapon up to meet it with a ringing clash. Then, all around them, the darkness began to shift. Black figures rose up from the ground, first in their scores, then in their hundreds, as if the souls of the dead were rising from the pits of Hades. Diomedes and Little Ajax forgot their quarrel and stepped back as the army of wraiths closed about them from the plain. Slowly, their pale faces and limbs became clearer, and one by one they slipped the black cloths from their shields and breastplates so that the metal and leather shone with a dull lustre in the darkness. Last of all they raised the points of their spears or drew their swords with a metallic slither, forming a wall of bronze about the open gates. The Greek army had arrived, and the sleeping city lay exposed before them.

Two figures approached from the massed ranks, the plumes on their helmets waving gently in the soft night breeze.

‘It worked! It actually worked,’ declared Agamemnon, with muted triumph. ‘Zeus be praised!’

‘And Odysseus, too,’ Diomedes reminded him. ‘His brains have succeeded where the might of Achilles and Great Ajax failed.’

‘We haven’t succeeded yet,’ said Nestor, standing at the King of Men’s side. ‘There’ll be much bloodshed before this battle’s over.’

‘But it’s the last battle,’ said Agamemnon. He turned towards the thousands of waiting soldiers and raised his spear above his head. ‘Troy is ours! Victory is ours! But it shall not be an empty one. I’ll not have the city sacked and its population scattered, so they can return and rebuild it when we’ve gone. I’ll not see the shadow of its towers fall across the Aegean again, to be a thorn in the side of future generations of Greeks. No, it must be destroyed. Put it to the torch. Throw down its walls and gates. Don’t suffer even one stone to remain on another. Destroy its flesh and blood, too. Kill every man, boy and infant you come across. And when you have shown them no mercy, do whatever you like with their women. Those are my only commands; now see that you carry them out to the full.’