‘Stay out of this,’ Achilles warned as Odysseus and Eperitus ran to join him.
The Ithacans moved forward and lifted Ajax to his feet, while Achilles kept his eyes firmly on the Aethiope king. Memnon made no move to prevent Ajax being taken away; though he regretted not being able to claim the armour of such a fierce and powerful warrior, the breastplate, helmet and shield of the man who had come to aid him would provide a much more worthwhile trophy.
‘There was nothing I could do against him,’ Ajax admitted despairingly. ‘He was too quick for me.’
‘But you survived,’ Odysseus consoled him, observing the many new wounds that crossed the giant warrior’s body. ‘From what I’ve heard of Memnon, there are no others who can boast such a thing.’
Ajax smiled weakly, but the greatest sign of his tiredness was that he was prepared to forgo his pride and lean his weight against Odysseus. Eperitus glanced over his shoulder at the main battle, where the Greek infantry under Menelaus, Diomedes and Idomeneus had broken the stranglehold on their countrymen and were now forcing the Trojans and Aethiopes backwards with great slaughter. Then he turned back to look at the figure of Memnon, prowling from left to right and back again like a trapped lion. Achilles stepped forward.
‘I am Achilles, son of Peleus and the goddess Thetis. I slew Hector, and I will slay you, Memnon, son of Tithonus.’
‘You claim a goddess for a mother,’ Memnon replied in Greek, ‘but you don’t mention that my own mother is also a goddess – Eos, the Dawn, who brings the new day to the world. I’ve heard of you, Achilles, but I don’t fear you. Rather, it’s you who should fear me!’
With terrifying speed, he lifted his spear above his shoulder and hurled it at Achilles. Achilles ducked down behind his shield, which took the full force of the attack and snapped the spear at the point where the socket joined the shaft. He replied in kind, a deadly throw that would have passed straight through Memnon’s armoured chest and spirited his ghost away to the Chambers of Decay, were it not for the speed with which the spindly warrior twisted aside from the missile’s aim. The next moment the two men were drawing their swords and running at each other, their blades clashing in mid-air and their shields meeting with a heavy thud. Achilles pushed his opponent away and lunged again with his sword point, piercing the oiled leather of Memnon’s shield but failing to meet the flesh beyond. As he tugged the blade free, Memnon drove at Achilles’s flank. Achilles batted the attack aside with ease and smashed the razor-sharp edge of his sword down against the Aethiope’s shield. The supple leather shuddered but held, while only Achilles’s quick instincts saved him from the low, scything reply that would have taken off his lower leg. A second blow rebounded off Achilles’s helmet, leaving nothing more than a long dent and a ringing in the Greek’s head. Numbed, he stumbled backwards with his shield raised against the swift blows that followed. But Achilles’s battle impulses had not deserted him; anchoring himself with a backward thrust of his right leg, he parried two more blows before ducking low and pushing the point of his sword beneath the edge of Memnon’s crescent shield. Memnon leapt back, but not before the blade opened his inner thigh and released a gush of dark blood that spattered over the ground below. He wobbled a little, as much with surprise as pain, but Achilles allowed him no time to recover. As Memnon raised his shield, he rained a series of savage blows down upon it that crumpled the wicker frame and sent the black warrior staggering backwards. Then the wounded muscle in his leg gave way and he fell to one knee, raising his weapon instinctively over his head to meet the next attack. But Achilles brought his sword down at an angle, severing Memnon’s hand just below the wrist and sending his blade – with his hand still clutching the hilt – spinning through the air.
The handsome black face that had earlier been filled with arrogant pride and self-assurance now stared up at Achilles with disbelief. The expression remained etched on his features even as Achilles sliced off his head and sent it rolling towards the feet of his shocked men, who gazed down at it in horror.
Achilles fell to one knee beside the headless torso and, while the warm blood was still jetting from the open neck, began to strip off the silver cuirass and the ornate, leather and gold scabbard that hung from a baldric about the chest. Odysseus and Eperitus instinctively moved forward to protect the Phthian prince as he claimed his trophies, each of them eyeing the Aethiope line with unease, aware that they would be outnumbered ten to one as soon as the enemy spearmen shook off their stupor and chose to attack. But as Eperitus clutched his spear and stared over the rim of his shield, a man left the opposing ranks and placed a foot on the decapitated head, rolling it slightly so that the dead eyes stared back up at him. That the man was an Aethiope chieftain was evident from his silver helmet with its long white plume and the gleam of the decorative bronze breastplate beneath his rich black robe. He held a long sword in his hand, which he slowly sheathed before taking hold of the ram’s horn that hung at his hip and raising it to his mouth. He blew a long, clear note that rose into the air like a wailing lament. Even the discordant clash of weapons from the main battle faded beneath it as Aethiope, Trojan and Greek alike heard the call and looked for its source. Then, suddenly, the black spearmen let out a cry of despair and began to pull away, turning their backs on battle as they ran towards the chieftain with the ram’s horn.
Chapter Forty-Two
APOLLO’S REVENGE
Achilles dumped Memnon’s armour on to the ground and joined the others as they turned to face the swarm of approaching Aethiopes. But the southerners were not interested in fighting any more; their leader was dead and with him their brief allegiance to Troy. They were not Priam’s vassals, like the Dardanians, the Zeleians or the Cilicians, but had been persuaded to fight by ancient friendships and promises of Trojan gold. These no longer mattered, and so they swept around the small knot of Greeks like a stampede of wild horses avoiding an outcrop of rock, following in the wake of their countrymen who were already in retreat across the plain.
With their left flank now gone, the Trojans broke off the fighting and began to fall back. Menelaus, Idomeneus and Ajax – his pride getting the better of his exhaustion – led their armies in pursuit, while Diomedes and Odysseus prepared their men to go after the Aethiopes.
‘Let the cavalry hunt them down,’ Achilles said. ‘I came here to take the city. The moment the Scaean Gate opens for the Trojan survivors, we’re going to follow them in.’
He turned to the lines of spearmen and raised his sword in the air.
‘Listen to me! You men fought hard and suffered while I let my pride keep me in my hut. But since my return I’ve killed Hector, Penthesilea and now Memnon, and today I will lead you into Troy itself! Every man here who does his duty and fights well can take all the women and gold he can lay his hands on – and if Agamemnon or Menelaus tries to stop you then they’ll have me to answer to. We’ve waited many years for this day to come; now’s the time to make names for ourselves that will linger on men’s lips long after our ghosts have gone down to Hades. To Troy!’
‘To Troy!’ they echoed, punching the air with their spear points.
Eperitus took the reins of Odysseus’s chariot while Eurybates and Arceisius joined the Ithacan ranks. As the many wounded began to trail back to the Greek camp – Nestor among them, still unconscious from his wounds and unaware that his son was dead – the rest of the army chased the Trojans back across the grassland. Their pursuit was slowed by the delaying tactics of the enemy cavalry, who wheeled and charged again and again to prevent the Greeks from coming to grips with the retreating infantry. But as the pursuit passed over the temple of Thymbrean Apollo and down the slopes beyond to the Scamander, the Trojan horsemen had no choice but to join the rest of the army as they forded the river. Suddenly Achilles, who had bided his time for this very moment, gave the order for every man to throw himself into the attack. With a great roar, the Greeks splashed through the shallow water and fell upon the Trojans. The ringing of bronze and the screams of injured men mingled with the gentle babbling of the water and the call of the gulls overhead; all around, men fell by the score and fed long streamers of blood into the fast current. The Trojan resistance was ferocious but short-lived. Dispirited, outnumbered and outfought, their line wavered and broke.