But Odysseus gave no mind to these remnants of the morning’s funeral. He narrowed his eyes in determination and stepped up to the mound. Eperitus, who had been standing a few paces behind, followed and handed him something dull and heavy. Odysseus took the discus in his right hand and looked down at it: a lump of cast iron, about the size of a small plate but heavy enough to strain at the hard muscles of his forearm and bicep. Nodding at Eperitus, who returned to where he had been waiting, Odysseus tipped the discus back against the heel of his thumb and gripped its lower edge with the ends of his fingers, before swinging his body round so that his weight shifted on to his right leg. Leaning forward and placing his left hand on his right knee, he began to swing the discus while using the toes of his free foot for balance. A moment later he fixed his stern gaze on the distant barrow, raised the discus as high as he could over his right shoulder, then, with a great shout, swung his body round and let go. The discus arced high and long through the air, silencing the onlookers as it spun over the stretch of naked beach, its flight seemingly interminable as it continued to rise like a bird on the wing, only reaching its zenith as it passed over the marks of Podarces and Sthenelaus before smacking the sand and bouncing on into the remains of the funeral pyre, where its long course ended in a puff of ash.
The incredulous pause that followed was quickly broken by a long roar of approval from the crowd of spectators. Even the men who had jeered him before now joined in the celebration as Odysseus raised his arms to the crowd, his bearded face broken by his beaming smile. He turned and met Eperitus’s exultant embrace, and the two men were soon surrounded by a crowd of Ithacans, cheering and shouting their king’s name.
‘Stand aside!’ ordered a booming voice. ‘Or have you forgotten that I also put my name forward for this competition? The prize is not yours yet, Odysseus.’
Silence fell and every eye turned to see Great Ajax standing ankle-deep in the soft sand. He had stripped naked and was holding a large discus in his right hand. It was twice the normal size and must have been four times as heavy, but Ajax carried it with ease in his fingertips. On either side of him were Teucer and Little Ajax. The former twitched nervously as he hid in his half-brother’s shadow, while the latter scowled with disdain, the snake about his shoulders hissing and flicking its forked tongue at the Ithacan king.
‘Of course,’ Odysseus answered, stepping down from the mound.
‘That was a good throw for a short man,’ Ajax said, squinting as he looked to where Odysseus’s discus had landed. ‘Perhaps Athena lent you her strength, as usual. But I will beat it, and without the help of any god!’
He spat on the sand and assumed the same position Odysseus had adopted, quickly swinging the discus back and forth until he felt the momentum reach its peak. Then he opened his fingers and let it go, emptying his lungs in a deafening bellow as the heavy weight went spinning high into the air. Odysseus shielded his eyes with the flat of his hand and watched it soar over the marks of the first two casts before dipping in a straight line towards Patroclus’s barrow. He knew the instant it had left Ajax’s hand that it would surpass his own throw, but it was with dismay that he saw it sail clean over the top of the tall mound to bury itself in the sand beyond.
Ajax ignored the roar that erupted from the ranks of the Greeks, choosing instead to turn and look triumphantly at Odysseus. Agamemnon stood and raised his sceptre in both hands over his head, keeping it there until silence had fallen.
‘I announce Ajax the winner,’ he called in a clear voice. ‘Bring the prize.’
A group of male slaves appeared from a nearby tent, carrying three copper tripods and matching cauldrons between them. Agamemnon pointed at Ajax and the men struggled over the soft sand towards him, only for the giant warrior to give his prize a cursory glance and send the slaves in the direction of his own tents at the far end of the beach.
As if to reinforce Odysseus’s humiliation, the King of Men now beckoned him forward to receive the runner-up’s prize – a donkey’s foal that brayed loudly as it was dragged from the tent. But before the attendant slave could hand him the rope that was tied around its neck, a commotion broke out among the crowd of soldiers. Men were pointing towards the sea and crying out in a mixture of disbelief and terror. The kings and princes, too, rose from their benches and stared in shocked awe at where the breakers of the Aegean were crashing upon the beach.
Odysseus turned and ran back down to where Eperitus and Ajax were looking in silence at the sea.
‘What’s happening to the water?’ Ajax asked, looking confused.
Odysseus ignored him and took the cloak Eperitus was holding out to him. By now a stretch of sea beyond the black hulls of the galleys was bubbling and smoking, as if a great fire had been lit beneath the waves and the waters were boiling in agony. Then shapes began to rise up from the turbulence, liquid in form and translucent at first, but quickly changing into flesh as they caught the sunlight. To the amazement of the thousands of onlookers – and no less so to Odysseus and Eperitus, who had seen it before – the first shape took the form of a young woman as she walked up out of the sea, a golden urn held in her hands. A dozen more sea nymphs followed in her wake, all of them young, beautiful and naked, finally halting on the beach halfway between the edge of the water and the throne of Agamemnon.
‘I am Thetis, mother of Achilles,’ the first announced. She spoke slowly, the grief in her immortal eyes clear for all to see. ‘I have brought this urn for my son’s ashes, a gift for him in death from the gods who forsook him in life.’
Overcoming his initial shock, Agamemnon snapped his fingers and waved Talthybius forward. The herald approached slowly and fearfully at first, until – remembering the eyes of the Greek army were upon him and finding his courage – he reached out and took the urn from the goddess’s hands. As he retreated in the direction of the funeral pyre, Agamemnon rose from his throne, took a few steps towards Thetis, then fell to his knees before her and bowed his head. With a great rustling like the wind sweeping across the canopy of a forest, the rest of the army followed his example.
‘My lady, accept our condolences for the loss of your son, whose like will never be seen on this earth again. May we also offer you our gratitude for his services to the army and invite you to join us in a feast honouring you and the glorious Achilles?’
‘Your words are tipped with honey, oh King of Men, but in your heart there is no grief for my son’s passing. He has been a thorn in your side ever since the fleet left Aulis: always the most difficult to control, the hardest to please and the most terrible to cross. He was your best fighter, yet you and many others are relieved he is dead. Do you deny this?’
Agamemnon kept his eyes fixed on Thetis’s white feet and said nothing.
‘I do not condemn you, King Agamemnon, for my son was always headstrong and proud. Much though his father loved him, even Peleus was relieved when he left for this war of yours. Achilles was too much of a man to be content in peacetime and only a little less at ease in war. And yet you are a fool if you think your internal problems ended with his death. He may have passed down to the realms of the dead, but he leaves a legacy of strife behind him. Behold, Greeks, the armour of Achilles!’
Odysseus and Eperitus, along with every other man in the army, raised their heads to see that the armour was now at Thetis’s side. The heavy cuirass that was the image of Achilles’s muscle-bound torso stood at the centre, with the golden helmet and its flowing, blood-red plume planted in the sand before it; the ornately patterned greaves – with the shaped cup on the right greave that had failed to prevent the designs of another god penetrating Achilles’s heel – lay crossed over each other to the right of the helmet; while leaning against the left side of the breastplate was the broad shield with its concentric, intricately carved circles depicting scenes of war and peace.