The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

‘I have no memory of what he looked like,’ Neoptolemus said. ‘He was just a shadow, flitting about in the furthest corners of my past. And yet I’ve never been able to escape that shadow. My mother, my aunts and my grandfather were always encouraging me to be like him. And now even the immortals want me to replace the man whom they destroyed.’ He set the toe of his sandal against a smooth black pebble and flicked it into the pool, shattering the image in the water. ‘Well, we shall see whether I’m worthy of his legacy or not, and whether I can also make a name for myself. And the place to begin is atop that ridge.’

He sprang across the pool, seemingly heedless of the weight of his armour or the great ash spear that most men could barely lift, and ran towards the grassy ridge that led to the plains beyond. The others followed, spreading out into a line as they topped the ridge and looking across at the sun-bleached walls of the Greek camp and the dark mass of the Trojan army that lapped about them. They were still some way to the north-west of the raging battle, but they could hear the roar of thousands of voices and the ringing of weapons. Hundreds of ladders were visible against the battlements, where indistinct figures struggled for mastery over each other.

Neoptolemus, who had instinctively knelt down in the high grass to observe the battle, turned as Odysseus, Diomedes and Eperitus joined him. His young eyes were alive with excitement.

‘The Trojans are already on the walls. It’ll be a fair sprint if you’re up to it, but we haven’t a moment to lose.’

Diomedes shook his head and pointed at the crowds of Trojan cavalry waiting impatiently behind the mass of attacking spearmen. ‘They’d spot us before we could cover half the distance. We’d be cut to pieces on the open plain.’

‘We’ll follow the gulley,’ Odysseus said, indicating the dried up stream that fed down into the cove from the plateau. It curved eastward in a thin line that swept behind the waiting cavalry, reaching to within a spear’s throw of them before veering off to the north. Though the water had disappeared with the summer sun, the tall grasses that marked its course would provide them with reasonable cover if they kept their heads low.

Neoptolemus clearly disliked the notion of sneaking into a fight, but gave a reluctant nod and followed Odysseus at a stoop along the shallow gulley. The rest trailed after them, over sixty in all, and the clatter of their armour and weapons earned stern rebukes from Diomedes and Sthenelaus as they brought up the rear. Last of all was Eperitus, who had lingered as long as possible while his sharp eyes swept the ranks of restless horsemen in search of Apheidas. His father was the commander of the Trojan cavalry, and though Eperitus knew he had to be somewhere on the battlefield, he was unable to pick out the hated figure from among the multitude of the enemy. Clutching his spears in his hand, he followed Sthenelaus into the narrow defile.

Fortunately, the din of the battle covered the sound of their approach and the hundreds of horsemen did not spot them through the tall brown grass as they traced the course of the dead stream to a point behind the nearest squadron. As the line of spearmen halted and lay down in the grass, Eperitus could see the backs of their enemies’ helmeted heads as they watched the battle raging on the walls. Then there was a shout of excitement and the Trojan cavalry followed it with a cheer. Eperitus dared to raise his head above the cover of the grass and saw the dust shaking from the timbers of one of the gates as it opened from within. But no force of Greeks came sallying forth. As the horsemen had guessed, the gates had been captured by the spearmen who had scaled the walls and now a flood of their comrades were pouring in through the breached defences.

Neoptolemus chose that moment to rise to his feet. Despite the dust, his armour gleamed in the morning sun and Eperitus could see the figures moving within the concentric circles of his shield. The red plume of the helmet was like a river of blood flowing over the nape of his neck and down the back of his bronze cuirass. As he stood the other Greeks joined him, climbing awkwardly to their feet beneath their unwieldy armour. The line of warriors moved their shields onto their arms and readied their spears. Odysseus strode forward through the grass, raising his hand high above his head, and still the Greeks had not been noticed. Eperitus pressed his fingers to the picture of a white hart on the inside of his shield, a reminder of his daughter Iphigenia, the first victim of the war against Troy. Cupping a spear in his right hand, he took aim at a horseman who was unnervingly close now that he had emerged from the protection of the gulley.