Part 30 (1/2)

'Suck out the venom!' he shouted, clutching at his foot and screaming with pain. 'In the name of the G.o.ds, suck it out!'

Palamedes, who was standing nearby, knelt down and took hold of his heel, but before he could lift it to his lips Achilles stepped forward and knocked him aside. There was a sly grin on his face as he turned and faced the crowd of shocked Greeks.

'That's not the way to deal with snake bites,' he declared. 'They need proper care. Where are Machaon and Podaleirius, the healers? They'll know what to do.'

'Their s.h.i.+ps haven't arrived yet, and you know it,' said Menestheus, the Athenian king, frowning with anxiety at the terrible cries that were filling the air. 'Let Palamedes suck out the venom before it's too late.'

But Achilles refused to allow anyone near the suffering archer, other than a pair of his own Myrmidons who dragged him to one side so that the sacrifices could continue. As Odysseus stepped up to the altar some time later, Philoctetes's screams were still ringing out over the plateau, to be heard even by the men in the galleys below. Those leaders who had performed their sacrifices left quickly, driven away by the unbearable and undiminished noise of the archer's shrieks. Even the crowd of captured islanders on the hillside above the town had begged to be moved to the opposite side of the ridge, where they would be further away from the terrible racket.

Despite their sympathy for the wounded man, Odysseus and Eperitus were eager to carry out the sacrifice and return to their s.h.i.+p. A council had been arranged for that evening to discuss the strategy for the a.s.sault on Troy, but they could not bear to be near Philoctetes any longer than necessary. Not only did his cries grate on the nerves of everyone who heard them, there was now a nauseous stench coming from the wound, filling the air all around him. It was so bad that not even Philoctetes's own soldiers could remain at his side for long in the small copse where they had carried him. Indeed, following Odysseus's example, every man who had yet to make his sacrifice had torn strips of cloth, dampened them in water and tied them over his face to filter out the stench.

Because of his heightened senses, Eperitus suffered more than anyone. He could almost feel the pain of each wailing cry and the reek of the wound seemed to fill every corner of his brain. So it was with great relief that he accompanied Odysseus to the altar and helped him to sacrifice the lamb to Athena. But as they hastened away from the plateau to the ramp that led down to the beach, someone staggered from the shade of the small copse and collapsed at the side of the road. It was Philoctetes.

'Odysseus,' he pleaded, stretching out his arm towards the Ithacan king.

Odysseus removed the strip of cloth from his face and ran over to kneel at the archer's side.

'What is it, Philoctetes?'

'Odysseus, promise me you won't let Achilles kill me. He and Patroclus won't be satisfied until I'm dead, but I've a part to play in this war yet, I know it. Give me your word.'

'You have it, my friend,' Odysseus replied, his voice strained as he tried not to gag on the awful stench. 'I'll do whatever I can.'

The council of war was held on the beach below the palace. A double circle of benches had been set out in the s.h.i.+ngle and around the perimeter was a ring of torches, flames twisting and flickering vigorously in the breeze from the sea. The foam-edged waves crashed repeatedly against the sh.o.r.eline and the night air was filled with the voices of the Greek leaders and their captains as they arrived, talking at an exaggerated volume in an attempt to drown out the constant groans from the top of the cliff. There were slaves aplenty, rus.h.i.+ng here and there with wine and food, and a large force of Agamemnon's bodyguard stood on watch all around.

Eventually only one place remained to be filled a single, high-backed chair positioned at the western edge of the circle. This had been reserved for Agamemnon, who appeared at last, striding confidently through a gap that had been left in the benches opposite, his blood-red cloak flowing behind him. He turned as he reached the chair and looked at the torch-lit faces. On his chest was the ornate breastplate given to him by King Cinyras, and in his hand he held the staff of authority that Hephaistos had made for Zeus long ago.

'Let the council begin,' he announced as his bodyguard formed a tighter ring around the outer edge of the circle. 'Nestor, myself and others have discussed plans for the invasion of Ilium and the destruction of the city of Troy, and thereby the rescue of Helen, queen of Sparta. These plans are to be laid before the council now so that every man here will know his part in the coming attack and its aftermath. This is not a debate, though questions will be permitted. King Nestor?'

Nestor rose from the bench beside Agamemnon and took the staff from his hands. As he turned to address the council, Eperitus looked with hate-filled eyes towards the King of Men. It was the first time he had seen him since the day of the sacrifice, when he was bent in grief across the body of the innocent girl he had just slain. Then he had been wild-eyed and driven by evil intent, his courage bolstered by wine and his mind twisted with insanity. Now, though, the old Agamemnon seemed to have returned. His red cloak and white tunic were smooth and spotless, his long brown hair neatly combed and twisted into a tail behind his neck; his beard had been precisely clipped to the outline of his handsome, impa.s.sive face, and as he sat back in his throne-like chair he wore an air of confidence and una.s.sailable power. Were it not for the dark circles around his eyes and the grey in his hair, he could have been the same self-a.s.sured, handsome king who had convened the council of war in Sparta a decade before.

He rested his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, the elbow of which was propped on the arm of his chair, and scanned the a.s.sembled kings with his cold blue eyes. Finally his gaze rested deliberately on Eperitus, and the two men looked at each other across the arena, Agamemnon hiding his dark thoughts behind a screen of impa.s.sivity and Eperitus barely able to conceal his distaste. Then Nestor stepped forward and raised his arms.

'Friends,' he began. 'Brothers! We have ama.s.sed the greatest fleet in the history of man. Our ranks contain the fiercest warriors ever to fight in the same army. The sh.o.r.es of Ilium are within sight! And yet the Trojans sleep peacefully in their beds, dreaming of their women and the wealth they have in plentiful supply. But tomorrow . . .' Nestor clenched his fist and stared with fiery eyes at them all. 'But very soon we will turn their dreams into nightmares. Soon we will drive the prows of our s.h.i.+ps onto their beaches and teach them all about the ferocity of Greek revenge. Their high towers will burn with Greek fire, and their blood will run in the streets. Their gold and women will belong to us, and Helen will be free!'

There was a huge roar from the benches and stamping of feet on the s.h.i.+ngle. Nestor raised his hands for silence.

'But battles and wars are not won by courage and skill alone. There must be a strategy, and the right tactics need to be employed. The Trojan army have to be drawn out from the comfort of their city walls and destroyed, or the swift war we desire will become a long siege. Several of us have spent many days discussing how . . .'

Nestor fell quiet and looked across at Achilles, who had risen from his bench and walked out into the centre of the circle.

'Lord Achilles?' Nestor asked.

Achilles bowed his head to the old man before continuing. 'King Nestor, how can any of us be expected to listen to talk of strategy and tactics with that noise going on?'

He signalled with his thumb over his shoulder, and as if in answer a long, agonized wailing sailed out from the cliff top above. A murmur of agreement came from the benches.

'Something must be done about Philoctetes,' Achilles continued. 'His constant moaning and the stench of his wound are becoming a concern to the men. We can endure it, if that's what is required of us as leaders, but you can't ask the army to put up with it. It's already being said that this is a bad omen for the war, and you know how superst.i.tious soldiers can be.'

'And what do you suggest, my friend?' Nestor responded. 'As soon as Machaon and Podaleirius arrived I sent them to tend Philoctetes's wound, but even they could do nothing for him. They tried every unguent and poultice known to their craft, without effect. In their opinion the snake that bit him must have been sent by a G.o.d, for the wound is unnaturally painful and resistant to healing. There's nothing we can do, Achilles.'

'Nothing?' Achilles asked. He strode up to the old king and held his hand out for the staff, then turned to face the council. 'Is there nothing we can do to put an end to this man's terrible pain, as well as our own suffering from the noise of it? Nothing? I would suggest there is. If he were a horse or a favourite dog, we'd kill him.'

'You cannot simply kill the man,' said Agamemnon calmly. He remained sitting, but a single sweeping look from his cold eyes silenced the cacophony of competing voices that had erupted from the benches. 'For one thing, the wound isn't fatal: this would be no mercy killing, as if he had been struck down in the midst of battle and was soon to die. For another, we cannot begin this war by murdering a Greek, least of all the leader of a faction. Before long we would be at each others' throats again, just like it used to be. And unless we remain united we will never be victorious against Troy.'

'He may be a leader,' called a voice from the benches, 'but he's not one of us. He's not a n.o.ble.'

Shouts of agreement followed and Achilles, sensing he was gaining the support of a large part of the council, turned to Agamemnon.

'It's true Philoctetes doesn't have the blood of G.o.ds or kings in his veins. He was just a shepherd boy when Heracles awarded him his magical bow and arrows, and it's only by that single chance that he has been given honour and power in his own country. By right, Medon should be leading the men of Malia, not Philoctetes. At least he is of n.o.ble birth.'

Achilles signalled to a short, burly warrior with leathery skin and a hardened look in his eye. Medon rose from his seat and looked about at the ring of faces.

'Achilles has already spoken to me about this,' he said in a low, hoa.r.s.e voice, 'and I've agreed to end Philoctetes's misery and take command in his place.'

'How n.o.ble of you, Medon,' said Agamemnon sarcastically, this time rising from his seat and taking two steps forward. 'But isn't this more to do with your anger, Achilles, at losing the race to Tenedos? Because of your hurt pride, you would have an innocent man slaughtered like a dumb beast.'

Achilles's hand flew to the pommel of his sword. 'That's a fine accusation to make,' he retorted, his face red with anger, 'when you only awarded the victory to Philoctetes because I tried to prevent the sacrifice of Iphigenia. And how can you accuse me of wanting to kill Philoctetes like a dumb beast when you murdered your own daughter in cold blood!'

Suddenly Agamemnon's hand was on the hilt of his sword, tugging the blade free of its scabbard. Achilles's own weapon was quick to meet it and, with a loud slither of metal, the razor sharp edges grated against each other. Then a third sword swept upwards and knocked them apart, and a moment later Eperitus placed himself between the two men.

'Sheathe your weapons,' he commanded. 'Use your anger on the Trojans, my lords, not each other.'

Agamemnon was the first to step back, his cool exterior quickly reimposing itself.

'Come, Achilles,' he said. 'Eperitus is right, there's no profit in squabbling among ourselves.'

Achilles hesitated, then slid his sword back into his sheath. 'And Philoctetes?' he persisted, eyeing the King of Men with poorly disguised anger. 'What are we to do about him?'

'Send him to Lemnos,' Odysseus suggested, rising from his bench. After the bitter exchange between Agamemnon and Achilles, the King of Ithaca's deep voice seemed calm and rea.s.suring, filled with wisdom and justice. 'There's nothing more we can do for him here, and as Achilles rightly suggests he'll only be an annoyance to the men. But there's no need to kill the poor wretch; he deserves compa.s.sion, not murder. Instead, we should leave him on Lemnos for now and return for him when the war is over. Medon can have his wish to lead the Malians, on the condition he and his men share their plunder with Philoctetes.'

There was a chorus of agreement from the benches. Odysseus looked directly at Achilles, who after a few moments nodded and handed the speaker's staff back to Nestor. Though he had seemed determined to see Philoctetes dead, he was content with the lesser victory of having the archer marooned for the duration of the war. He returned to his bench and sat down.

Agamemnon also returned to his seat, but not before he had turned to Eperitus and given him a curt nod of thanks for his intervention. For his own part, Eperitus felt an uneasy mixture of loathing and satisfaction. He would rather have allowed Achilles's proud anger to strike Agamemnon dead a fitting end for an abhorrent man. But he was honour-bound to defend the King of Men, and a small corner of his mind took pleasure from the knowledge that Clytaemnestra's revenge would be much more terrible than a swift thrust of Achilles's sword.

He returned to his seat next to Odysseus as Nestor stepped back into the centre of the council. The golden staff gleamed in his hand, the jewels upon its head glittering in the torchlight.

'Tomorrow, then, Odysseus will transport Philoctetes to Lemnos while we rest and gather our strength. A sizeable landing party will seize the bay a little further up the coast, as already planned, and anybody found there or on the hills about it will be killed or taken prisoner. All s.h.i.+pping pa.s.sing the bay is to be captured and held. Every measure has to be taken to prevent news of our arrival reaching King Priam. Then, the morning after, we attack.'

'Curse you, Odysseus,' Philoctetes hissed from the prow of the s.h.i.+p, where he had been laid with his arms and legs bound. By now he was exhausted from the pain of his wound and a night without sleep, and his voice was hoa.r.s.e and weary. 'Curse Achilles. Curse Agamemnon. Curse all Ithacans. And curse this d.a.m.nable wound. Oh, in the name of all the G.o.ds, won't you please kill me?'

'It's just not right,' said Antiphus as he pulled back on his oar. His voice was m.u.f.fled by the damp strip of cloth he wore to filter out the worst of the stench; all the crew had them. 'I've never seen such archery. I don't care how much he complains or how bad he smells, that man could hit Priam in the eye if he was on the loftiest tower in all Ilium. We should be taking him to the war, not from it.'

But Antiphus had few sympathizers on the galley, whose crew had been forced to endure the obnoxious Philoctetes since before dawn that morning. They had spent the night listening to his screams of pain while he was on the cliff top on Tenedos, so to be confined with him on the claustrophobic deck of a s.h.i.+p had driven them almost beyond the limit of their endurance. Only the knowledge that they would soon be rid of him prevented them from throwing him overboard.

Odysseus ignored Antiphus and peered out through the thick mists, looking for rocks as he steered the galley into the lee of a promontory that thrust out from the eastern edge of the island. The sail had been furled and the crew were busy at the oars. The only sound was the trickle of water running off the oar blades and the occasional cawing of gulls in the air above. The sun was in the sky, but they could only sense its presence as a concentrated point of whiteness in the dense fog that enveloped everything.