The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

But they had gained only a minor success, temporarily driving away a company of cavalry and dinting the confidence of their enemies; the greater battle was far from over. As the rear ranks of the Trojan foot soldiers turned their shields, spears and bows towards the newcomers, a second unit of cavalry began forming up to charge. Eperitus glanced across at Odysseus, flanked on either side by Polites, Eurybates and Omeros, their spears tipped with dark blood. The king caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow in typically understated fashion at their dilemma. As Neoptolemus saw the forces gathering against them he laughed aloud, his veins flowing with reckless confidence, as if he had not only inherited his father’s armour but his indestructibility also. Levelling his great ash spear above his shoulder, he cast it at the line of cavalry and plucked a rider from his mount, sending him tumbling to his ruin in the dust.

A shout of anger erupted from the Trojans. A single horseman burst from the mass of beasts and men and galloped at the lone figure of Neoptolemus, a long spear couched beneath his arm and aimed at the warrior’s chest. Eperitus saw him and cursed: it was Apheidas. For a moment he was at a loss, wanting to see his father dead and yet not by the hand of Neoptolemus, or anyone other than himself. The Trojan cavalry were charging in the wake of their commander and Eperitus heard the voice of Diomedes calling for his men to close ranks. On the walls, Trojans and Greeks cried out the name of Achilles – the former in dismay and the latter as a rallying cry – and the fighting broke out again with renewed vigour. Then, as Eperitus seized his spear and resolved to run out to face his father, Odysseus grabbed him and pulled him back. Eperitus tried to release himself, but the king held him tight and pressed the whiskers of his beard close to his ear, so that he would be heard over the din of battle.

‘It’s too late,’ he said, guessing what was on his captain’s mind. ‘Run out there now and you’ll be killed for certain. All you can do is ask the gods to save him for you, if that’s what you want.’

Eperitus watched Apheidas galloping down on Neoptolemus, the wind trailing his hair and cloak behind him, and knew Odysseus spoke the truth. With a bitter scowl, he called on Athena to protect the man whose death he had craved all his adult life, promising her the sacrifice of an unblemished lamb if she saved him from Achilles’s son. No sooner had he spat the words from his mouth than the terrifying hum of hundreds of bowstrings filled the air. The Greeks instinctively ducked behind their shields, but their caution was unnecessary: the Trojan archers had loosed their arrows at the reincarnation of Achilles, whose unexpected appearance had filled them with dread and a determination to send him back to the Underworld. The murderous shafts poured towards the splendidly armoured figure, forcing Apheidas to break off his charge and steer his mount away from the fall of shot. Neoptolemus crouched low behind his shield, which no earthly arrow could pierce, then rose to his feet again in defiance of the archers and the fast-approaching cavalry. An instant later, he was swallowed up by the wall of charging horses.

Apheidas – still ignorant of his son’s presence – now sent his black stallion galloping towards the knot of enemy spearmen. The rest of his command followed, intent on wiping the small band of Greeks out of existence. While the Argives and Ithacans instinctively closed ranks to form a circular buttress against the fast-approaching cavalry, Eperitus rushed out to meet his father, determined to avenge the deaths of King Pandion and Arceisius. More than ever now he regretted that the spear of Ares had been left back in Pelops’s tomb. Its unerring accuracy would have brought Apheidas down in the dust, even at that distance, but Agamemnon had given strict orders that his ancestor’s crypt was not to be plundered. And so Eperitus pulled his spear behind his shoulder, aimed at his father’s chest and waited for him to come nearer.

The second volley of arrows hit the Greeks with a silent whisper. Diomedes and Odysseus had shouted warnings, but Eperitus – aware of nothing but the charging figure of his father – did not realise his danger until the bronze tip of an arrow tore into the muscle of his right thigh. It was as if his leg had been knocked from beneath him by a giant hammer, toppling him backwards so that his armoured body met the ground with a thud. He lay there like a stricken titan, momentarily paralysed by the pain of his wound and the approach of unconsciousness. His vision began to fade, like a funnel into which a dark liquid was being poured, and he was dimly aware of the thunder of hooves rising up through the ground and into his ribs. There was a mingled odour of dust, sweat and horses, too, and he knew he only had moments now to live.