‘The Olympians have sent me here,’ Thetis continued, ‘to award this armour to the bravest of the Greeks who fought before the Scaean Gate, in the battle where my son was slain. But you must decide between yourselves who was the most courageous. If any man here thinks he showed the greatest valour – or believes he is worthy to wear the armour of Achilles – then let him step forward to be judged by his peers under King Agamemnon!’
The challenge rolled out across the wide bay and settled on the hearts of every soldier present. For a moment, all those who had fought in the battle felt the temptation to state his claim. Even Eperitus found himself reflecting on his part in the retreat and the number of Trojans he had killed. Without him, Achilles’s body would never have been brought back to the ships; surely, a smooth voice whispered in his head, he had as much right to the prize as any other man. And with a sudden greed his eyes fell on the gleaming armour at Thetis’s side.
But his ardour cooled as quickly as it had gripped him. A more sobering voice had stilled his mind, telling him he would be a fool to think his part in the retreat had been greater than that of some others – and of two men in particular: Great Ajax, who had carried the heavy corpse back to the ships without any weapons to defend himself, despising all thoughts of his own danger in his desire to save his cousin’s body; and Odysseus, who had fought with a fury Eperitus had never seen in the king before, throwing the Trojans back again and again with no regard for their numbers. Some had been so afraid of him that they had abandoned their arms in fear and pleaded to be spared his wrath.
The same conclusion dawned on Diomedes, Menelaus, Little Ajax and a host of others, and they lowered their eyes so that the sight of the splendid armour would not tempt them to make fools of themselves. Of all the great warriors who had taken part in the fighting, only two now rose to their feet and walked towards Thetis. Odysseus and Ajax had accepted the challenge.
Chapter Forty-Four
THE DEBATE
Thetis left her son’s armour on the beach and returned to the sea. Her nymphs followed, singing a mournful dirge as the waves reabsorbed their watery bodies. Their voices were so sweet and ethereal that the Greeks were held in thrall for a long time after they had gone, their hearts torn with renewed sadness for the great Achilles. It was Agamemnon who finally broke the spell, rising from his throne and ordering the benches of the council to be formed into a circle with his own seat at its head. The awarding of the armour would be decided by a debate between the two claimants, but first he insisted that Ajax and Odysseus return to their huts and prepare themselves.
Odysseus sighed, wishing Athena had not given the task to him. After she had departed his hut he had spent the remainder of the night pondering what he had to do, knowing there was no open and honest way to prove himself more worthy of Achilles’s armour than Ajax. That, of course, was exactly why the gods had chosen him: since the death of Palamedes, no one else in the army had the same instinct for trickery and cunning that would be needed for the job. But he was also concerned about how Eperitus would react. His captain’s clear-cut view on what was right and what was wrong would be sorely tested, and yet Odysseus knew he would have to rely on Eperitus’s witness if he was to win the debate – at least, not without resorting to baser methods. But the king had no choice in the matter, a fact that Athena had made very clear: carry out the will of the gods; intervene on their behalf, or suffer the war to continue without end, a punishment for the disobedience of mankind. He only wished she had not forbidden him to tell Eperitus.
‘Why in Athena’s name do you want Achilles’s armour?’
Odysseus turned to see Eperitus at his shoulder, looking angry and confused.
‘You heard what Achilles said to me,’ Odysseus replied, hating himself for the deceit he was about to carry out. ‘Besides, I earned it, bringing his body back to the camp. And do you remember how Palamedes called me a coward, saying I’d be a forgotten king without glory? What do you think he’d say if he saw me wearing the armour of Achilles, made by Hephaistos himself?’
Eperitus’s eyes widened in disbelief as the king spoke, though his growing anger was not without concern at the strange shift in his friend’s character.
‘Listen to yourself, Odysseus! Can this really be you speaking? You know the armour should go to Ajax, and as for what Achilles said—’
Odysseus held up a finger.
‘Enough, Eperitus. I’m going to my hut to prepare and I’m taking Omeros and Eurylochus with me. You are to stay here and keep a close eye on the armour – I don’t trust that oaf Ajax not to come and take it while I’m gone. But listen, old friend,’ he added, softening his tone and putting his hands on Eperitus’s shoulders. ‘I’m serious about winning this debate, and I want you to witness for me. Can I count on you?’
Eperitus’s eyes narrowed.
‘You know I’ll always serve your best interests,’ he answered.
When Odysseus returned it was to find Ajax already there, standing Titan-like before the ranks of seated warriors with Teucer and Little Ajax standing at his shoulders. His massive fists were balled up on his hips and he looked for every man on the beach as if the armour were already his. Odysseus entered the circle of benches where the Council of Kings was ready to sit in judgment, wearing a plain tunic and the faded purple cloak Penelope had given him at their parting on Ithaca ten years before. He had always scorned fine clothes and decorative armour in a debate, feeling they were the cheap tricks of lesser men, hoping to awe their audience with a show of wealth and power, rather than winning them over by the skill of their argument.
The two warriors stood almost shoulder to shoulder before the King of Men, who kept them waiting – along with the council and the rest of the army – while he spoke in low tones with Nestor and Menelaus. Ajax crossed his hands over the small of his back and looked at Odysseus from the corner of his eye.
‘What are you hoping to gain by this, Odysseus?’ he whispered. ‘If you wanted something from me, you know all you needed to do was ask. But challenging my claim—’
‘I have a right to the armour, too.’
‘Is it because I beat you in the discus throw? Or are you just trying to antagonize me? Because if you are, you’re succeeding. But if you drop your claim now I’ll think none the worse of you.’
Odysseus looked up at the towering form of Ajax, catching his fierce eye.
‘I don’t have that choice, Ajax. And if I lose your friendship over this, then I’m sorry.’
Ajax glared back at him, then began rocking on his heels, making his impatience obvious to Agamemnon as he fidgeted and blew through his teeth. That he was the greatest fighter in the whole Greek alliance could no longer be disputed since the death of Achilles, and if the King of Men’s decision was to be based on fighting prowess alone then the victory would doubtless be his. But Odysseus had two assets that Ajax had not – his shrewd intelligence and his voice. The eventual owner of Achilles’s armour would not be decided in battle, but by argument and counterargument. And as the bloated sun shimmered above the distant edge of the ocean, the contest was wide open.