The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

‘The camp hasn’t been destroyed. There’s been a battle, though; the smoke is from the funeral pyres of the dead. Some are inside the walls, but some are outside, and that can only mean the camp is under siege.’

Odysseus, who had been at the helm with Sthenelaus, now joined them.

‘You’re right, though where Priam found enough soldiers to launch another attack at this late stage in the war I don’t know. But if the Trojans are laying siege to the walls, then we’ll be of more use landing further up the coast, beyond the camp, and seeing what we can do from there.’

Diomedes gave him a questioning look.

‘With sixty Argives? We’d be better landing in the camp and bolstering the defences.’

‘You seem to forget I am with you,’ Neoptolemus said. ‘The son of Achilles is worth more than sixty Argives, or even six hundred. If there’s a Trojan army before the walls of the camp, we should attack them from behind and drive them in panic and slaughter back to their own city.’

Diomedes looked at him for a moment, but despite his greater rank, age and experience decided to concede the point.

‘The gods themselves chose you, Neoptolemus,’ he said, giving him a slight bow, ‘and who am I to question their judgement? If you’re ready to stand in your father’s footprints, then it will be a pleasure to fight beside you.’

Neoptolemus smiled and gripped Diomedes’s hand.

‘Then let’s arm for battle.’

He set off towards the helm, where his splendid armour was kept hidden beneath drapes of sailcloth. Eperitus looked at Odysseus, who shrugged and turned on his heel, shouting orders for a change of course away from the camp and towards Troy.

As the ship’s crew burst into a brief period of high activity, Eperitus went to the bench where his armour was stowed and pulled on his breastplate. Omeros joined him, helping him with the buckles that held the two halves together. Eperitus glanced across at Neoptolemus, who was struggling to fit the bronze cuirass that Hephaistos had crafted in exact mimicry of Achilles’s muscular torso. An Argive offered his help – doubtless keen to lay his hands on the beautiful armour – but Neoptolemus refused sharply and struggled on. Not for the first time, Eperitus found himself wondering how Neoptolemus would perform in battle, whether he had inherited Achilles’s prowess, pride and thirst for glory, or whether he would wither beneath the great shadow of his father. The only thing Eperitus felt certain of was that Neoptolemus would be a lone warrior, suited more to the heroic duels between champions than the close press of the battle lines, in which each man’s life depended as much on his neighbour as himself.

By the time the crew were armed and ready to face whatever lay waiting on the plains of Ilium, the shoreline was close enough for them all to see the beached galleys of the Greek fleet to the south-east, the sprawl of tents beyond them and the defensive walls that had been erected on the ridge above. Long trails of smoke still fed upwards from the pyres of the dead, leaning at diagonals with the prevailing westerly wind. But of a besieging army there was no sign, until the moment the galley began its approach towards a small cove a short march north of the Greek camp. Then they heard the familiar hum of massed arrows and saw the sky above the cliffs to the south-east darken as thousands of missiles filled the air. A sense of haste took hold of the galley as the sail was lowered and the oars thrust through their leather loops into the water. The crew rowed the vessel silently into the cove and the anchor stones were cast into the shallow sea. Then they leapt overboard and splashed towards the narrow semicircle of sand.

Neoptolemus was first to reach the shore and left deep footprints behind him as he sprinted up the beach. He gained the shelf of black rock at the edge of the sand and stopped, waiting, it seemed, for the others to join him. But as Eperitus reached him he realised Neoptolemus’s hesitation had been nothing to do with his comrades. He stood with his feet at the lip of a shallow rock pool, staring down at his reflection on its still surface. Eperitus saw the image in the circle of water and frowned in disbelief. The figure was not Neoptolemus but Achilles, with his distinctive golden hair and beard and the unforgettable face that was both terrifying and wonderful to look upon. As the others gathered around, an awed silence fell over them.

‘It’s the ghost of your father,’ Odysseus announced, standing beside Neoptolemus. ‘The gods have placed his image in the pool as a sign to you. You must complete the destiny they denied him, Neoptolemus, and bring about the end of Troy.’