‘Arceisius! What are you doing here?’
‘Where are you going, Eperitus? I think you should tell me.’
‘I can’t stay with the army.’
‘You’re going to Troy with Astynome, aren’t you?’
There was a strange look in Arceisius’s eye, as if he knew the truth but could not bring himself to believe it. Eperitus hesitated, not knowing how to answer.
‘Yes, he is,’ Astynome answered, reaching out and placing a calming hand on Arceisius’s upper arm.
‘I’m going to end the war, Arceisius. I’m going to meet my father in the temple of Thymbrean Apollo—’
‘Your father!’
‘Yes. He says he can bring peace and I’m willing to give him a chance. I don’t think he’s acting on behalf of Priam, but peace is peace and I’m at the point where I’ll take it in any form it’s offered.’
Eperitus crouched beside Astynome’s horse with his hands cupped together. Astynome stepped on to his crossed fingers and mounted.
‘But you hate Apheidas,’ Arceisius continued. ‘You’ve hated him for as long as I’ve known you. And now you’re betraying Odysseus for his sake? How can you, after all you and Odysseus have been through together?’
‘You can call me a traitor if you wish, Arceisius, but I’m doing this for Odysseus’s sake, and for Astynome’s. Do you think I’d ever give up my honour for personal gain?’ He mounted his horse and took the reins, turning the beast to face Arceisius. ‘My honour is everything I’ve ever had, but if I can stop this war by surrendering it, then it’ll be worthwhile. Odysseus needs to get back to Ithaca before he loses all trace of who he really is; and I’ll not have Astynome raped or worse if the Greeks ever succeed in taking Troy.’
Suddenly the point of Arceisius’s sword was pressed against his stomach, just beneath the line of his cuirass.
‘I won’t let you go, Eperitus. You’re ill – a fever or something – but whatever it is, you’re not yourself. You’re not thinking clearly.’
‘My thoughts are clearer than they’ve ever been, my friend. For years all I’ve wanted is glory and honour, and all it’s ever brought me has been pain and loss. And I believe my father has changed, too. He regrets the past, I’m certain of it, and I’m going to give him the chance to redeem himself. So if you want to stop me, you’re going to have to kill me.’
There was a pause, broken only by the flapping of the north wind in their cloaks. Then Arceisius withdrew his sword and slipped it back into its scabbard.
‘Go then, traitor. And may the gods forgive you.’
Ajax sat hunched up on a boulder on the northernmost slopes of the bay. The myriad stars above him seemed to be reflected in the camp below, where thousands of fires guttered and glimmered in the breeze from the sea. The dark, countless shapes of the galleys stood out against the grey of the beach, where their high sterns were lapped by the moon-brushed breakers of the Aegean, charging and retreating again and again across the sand. The roaring of the waves that had hushed the dreams of every Greek for ten years seemed suddenly fresh and soothing to Ajax as he sat with whetstone in hand, repeatedly sweeping it across the blade of the sword Hector had given him after their duel, so many weeks before. All around him were the vast herds of sheep, goats, cattle and oxen that fed the Greek army. They had settled for the night and were lying close to each other for warmth, filling the air with the pungent smell of their bodies. Occasionally a beast would stir, causing a chain reaction of shifting and bleating, but Ajax took no notice of them. Instead, he kept scraping his whetstone over the gleaming blade and staring down at the grey mass of Agamemnon’s tent.
A large fire burned on the sand nearby, sending a column of spark-filled smoke into the air. Black outlines could be seen against the flames, busy jointing and carving up a score of carcasses for the feast that was taking place inside. Every king, prince and captain in the army had been invited to celebrate the end of the official mourning period for Achilles; all of the chief Greeks would be inside, cramming food into their mouths as if Achilles had never existed. But for Ajax, the mourning period was not yet over. When the messenger had arrived with Agamemnon’s invitation, Ajax had refused even to acknowledge his presence. How dare Agamemnon ask him to attend his banquet after he had denied him Achilles’s armour, which was his by blood right and by right of the fact that he was the greatest warrior in the whole army? And no doubt Menelaus, Nestor and the others would all be there to gloat over his defeat! They hated him to a man, jealous of his strength and ferocity in battle, and the fact that he had always covered himself in greater glory than the rest of them combined. What was worse, he could not stand the thought of being in the presence of Odysseus, who would doubtless be showing off Achilles’s armour and taking every opportunity to remind Ajax of his victory. A victory for injustice and nothing more.
Ajax swiped the whetstone over the blade one final time, then returned it to the small leather pouch that hung from his belt. He held the sword up and watched the faint light of the full moon cascade down its length. It was a good sword and a far greater token of glory than the armour Odysseus had been awarded, for at least Hector had given it to him in honour of his fighting prowess. Now he would use both sword and prowess to show the rest of the Greeks that he was not to be dismissed lightly or made a mockery of. He slid down from the rock and strode determinedly through the long grass, an angry sneer contorting his features.
‘If you go down to that tent, Ajax, I promise you it will end in disaster.’
Ajax spun round to see a young shepherd sitting on the boulder he had just vacated. He was as tall as Ajax, but white-skinned and of slender build. His hair shone like silver in the moonlight and he stared at Ajax with large grey eyes that seemed wise and ageless and yet filled with energy and laughter. In his right hand was a tall crook and over his left arm was draped a fleece of silvery wool.
‘Who are you?’ Ajax demanded. ‘Where did you spring from?’
‘Come now,’ the shepherd replied, ‘don’t you recognize an immortal when you see one? You may grudge our help in battle, son of Telamon – always reluctant to share your glory – but you still honour us with sacrifices. Only the other day you offered me a bullock . . .’
‘Mistress Athena!’ Ajax exclaimed, bowing his head and dropping on to one knee. ‘Forgive my slowness.’
‘And where are you off to on this fine evening, Ajax?’
Ajax stared at the ground, glad the goddess could not see the guilt written on his features. ‘To . . . to Agamemnon’s tent. There’s a feast.’
‘A good idea. Best not to let your anger fester – speak with the King of Men and Odysseus, let them know you bear them no ill will. But give me Hector’s sword first. I will take it back to your hut for you.’
‘I’d rather not, Mistress.’
‘I see,’ said Athena, though she had seen all along. ‘Then you’re set on teaching Agamemnon and Odysseus a lesson, and perhaps a few of the others too, in your anger.’
‘Yes,’ Ajax answered, raising his angry eyes to the goddess. ‘Yes! They humiliated me in front of the whole army and I can’t stand it. I won’t stand it!’