The entire Greek army had been sitting on the wet grass for hours listening to Archbishop Calchas’ sermon.
‘And now,’ droned the Archbishop, ‘for the final part of our funeral service.’
Diomedes stifled a yawn and clouted the soldier in front of him, who was playing patience with a pack of cards.
‘Our old hero Achilles is dead,’ continued Calchas. ‘We cannot win the war until we have a new hero.’
General Agamemnon now stepped forward in his best uniform and lifted up the huge suit of silver and gold armour.
‘This belonged to my dearest friend, Achilles,’ he said with tears in his eyes. ‘I now present it to the best and bravest soldier in the Greek army: he shall be our new hero.’
The soldiers stirred. At last the moment had arrived. Who would it be? Which man among them was great enough to take over from Achilles?’
Big Ajax stood up. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘It’s a great honour.’
‘Sit down!’ shouted Diomedes.
‘What do you mean?’ answered Ajax. ‘I’m the best soldier in the Greek army. I’ve got sacks full of medals to prove it.’
‘Rubbish!’ shouted Diomedes.
‘Oh, rubbish is it? Who do you think’s the best then? Your marvellous friend, Odysseus, I suppose.’
‘YES!’ roared Odysseus’ men.
‘NO!’ roared Ajax’s men, and they began jostling and shoving each other and someone was biting someone else’s nose.
‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’ yelled Agamemnon, wading in and pulling them all apart. ‘This is a church service, not a football match. We’ll have a vote. All those in favour of Odysseus being our hero, raise your swords.’
A forest of swords rose into the air.
‘Rights, swords down. All those in favour of Ajax.’
Another forest of swords appeared.
‘Who’s the winner then?’ asked the Archbishop, unable to disguise the excitement in his voice. ‘Is it Ajax or is it Odysseus?’
‘It’s a draw,’ said Agamemnon.
‘Well, then, let’s ask the Trojans what they think,’ called Diomedes. ‘After all, the best hero is the one the enemy is most scared of.’
So that evening, Agamemnon and Calchas crept up to the walls of Troy and listened carefully to the guards moving above them on the battlements.
‘I don’t fancy our chances now Hector’s dead,’ they heard a Trojan say.
‘No,’ replied someone else. ‘I certainly wouldn’t want to meet that Ajax on a dark night.’
‘Ajax? You great nellie! It’s Odysseus you want to worry about. He may be little, but he’s as crafty as a barrelful of monkeys.’
‘Yes,’ they all agreed. ‘If anyone can win the war for the Greeks, it’s Odysseus.’
So that night there was a big banquet and Odysseus was presented with the armour. There were long, boring speeches of course, but they were followed by roast ox, swan pie and gallons of wine, and soon the entire army was merry – except for Ajax, who was sitting in the corner. The merrier the army got, the gloomier Ajax became.
Odysseus went over to him and said, ‘It’s not important. It’s a fuss about nothing. The armour’s too big for me anyway.’
Ajax turned white. ‘To be humiliated is bad enough,’ he said. ‘But to be humiliated by a smarmy, pint-sized know-it-all like you is more than I can bear. Leave me alone! I’m going to kill myself!’
And he ripped open his shirt, drew his sword, and fell on it. Except his sword bent double under his weight and he collapsed on the floor.
The whole Greek army burst out laughing. ‘Leave him alone,’ scoffed Diomedes. ‘He’ll soon get over it.’
‘I hope so,’ replied Odysseus, and stared hard at the bowed figure of Ajax.
Next morning Odysseus wanted some time to think, so he went for a walk on his own. He sat under a plum tree on a hill overlooking the camp and wondered what sort of hero he would make. What was it his grandfather had told him all those years ago? ‘When the going gets tough, get a bit crafty, use a few tricks, tell a few whoppers.’
Deep in thought, Odysseus reached up to pick a plum. His hand touched something strange and cold. He looked up. It was a foot. High in the branches Ajax was hanging by his neck…
When Ajax’s funeral was over, Calchas came fussing up to Odysseus with a bundle full of weapons. ‘Morning, hero,’ he said. ‘You’ll be needing these now, of course. Two holy shields, half a dozen holy spears, two holy axes and a holy ball and chain.’
‘I’m not that sort of hero,’ replied Odysseus. ‘We won’t defeat the Trojans with brute strength. We’re going to have to use a bit of cunning.’
‘What do you mean? What are you going to do?’
‘First, I’m going to strengthen our army,’ said Odysseus. ‘Then I’m going to weaken their army and finally I’ll find a way to open the gates of the city.’
‘And how are you going to start?’ asked Calchas.
‘Do you remember Philoctetes, the greatest archer in Greece?’
‘Yes,’ said Calchas. ‘You tricked him and had him marooned on the island of Lemnos ten years ago.’
Odysseus smiled. ‘Well, if there’s one thing our army needs, it’s a really good archer.’
A few days later, Odysseus and Diomedes climbed out of their boat on to a deserted island. They hid behind a big, black rock, spotted with seagulls’ droppings, and looked down at the pathetic figure below them.
Dressed in seagull feathers, he was sitting outside a cave sticking silver arrows into a small doll carved out of albatross bones. His hands were shaking and he was ill and weak. It was Philoctetes.
‘How are you going to persuade him to come back with you?’ asked Diomedes. ‘He can’t stand the sight of you.’
‘I’ll show you,’ said Odysseus, and slithered down the rocks towards the cave.
Philoctetes heard the noise.
He looked up at the man coming towards him. Then he looked down at the doll. They both had the same face, man and doll – the face of Odysseus.
Philoctetes let out a howl of anguish, then hurled the doll on to the rocks where it smashed into a thousand pieces.
‘Hallo,’ said Odysseus. ‘Long time no see.’
‘What are you doing here?’ hissed Philoctetes. ‘You’ve come to kill me.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ replied Odysseus. ‘I’ve come to take you back to Troy.’
Philoctetes was quaking with rage. ‘Leave this island,’ he ordered. ‘I’d rather die than go with you.’
‘You sure?’ said Odysseus.
‘I’m sure,’ answered Philoctetes.
‘Fair enough,’ said Odysseus. ‘Still… it’s a pity about the chest of gold.’
‘What chest of gold?’
‘Well, Agamemnon was going to give you a chest of gold for all the trouble you’ve been caused.’
‘I’m not interested,’ said Philoctetes, and he limped back into his cave.
‘No’, of course not,’ said Odysseus. ‘I respect that. It’s a matter of principle, isn’t it? Still, it’s a shame about the doctor.’
Philoctetes’ head popped back out of the cave.
‘We’ve hired this Egyptian doctor, you see, who’s a specialist in leg wounds,’ persisted Odysseus. ‘He’d do a lovely job on your foot.’
‘I’m not worried about my foot,’ said Philoctetes. ‘I’ve learnt to live with it – learnt to live the life of a wretched creature, an animal – but at least an animal who’ll never be tricked again.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ agreed Odysseus. ‘You’ve coped really well. I’d better say goodbye then.’
And as he turned to go he said to Diomedes, raising his voice just a little, ‘I wonder who they’ll make General now?’
‘What?’
‘Well, it just… it’s not important really. It’s just that they were going to make you a General but, if you’re not coming back, I suppose they’ll make me one… I’m due for a promotion.’
‘I’m coming,’ said Philoctetes.
‘Oh, good,’ smiled Odysseus. ‘You’ll look nice in a General’s armour.’
On the voyage back, Philoctetes grew more and more unpleasant. For the first week he did nothing but shovel food into his mouth. For the second he did nothing but talk. He got sleeker, fatter and the old haughty look crept back into his eyes. By the time they got to Troy the sailors wished they’d never gone to get him.
Watching Philoctetes limp down the gangplank, Odysseus put his arm round Calchas’ shoulder.
‘You’d better get one of your priests to put a mask on and do some mumbo jumbo over his foot… and tell him to do it in Egyptian. That should keep our haughty friend quiet for a bit. And tell Agamemnon he’s got a new General.’
Calchas nodded. It was a small price to pay for the finest archer in the world.
‘I’m off now,’ said Odysseus. ‘I’ve got some dressing up to do.’
Sometime later, a filthy beggar hobbled up to the gates of Troy.
‘Spare a drachma for a cup of goat’s milk,’ he whined.
‘No begging allowed here,’ shouted the guards. ‘Get inside, you old filth bag.’ And in no time Odysseus was shuffling through the city streets with an enormous moth-eaten hood hiding his face.
Soon he came to Paris’ house. At the first-floor window, Helen was stuffing a truffle into her mouth. Odysseus smiled thinly. She’d got a double chin now and little rolls of fat on her wrists.
‘Spare a drachma for a flask of sheep’s yoghurt,’ he called.
‘Go away, you horrid beggar,’ said Helen.
‘It’s me – Odysseus,’ hissed the beggar.
‘Odysseus!’ screeched Helen.
‘Shhhh. Can I come in?’
Helen raced down the stairs, giggling and frightened.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Paris would kill you if he knew.’
‘I want to steal the White Goddess,’ replied Odysseus. ‘Can you help me?’
‘I’m not sure if I should,’ answered Helen.
‘Come on,’ urged Odysseus. ‘You know you’re a Greek at heart.’ Helen popped another choc excitedly. Whether she had a heart at all was in doubt.
‘You know how much the Goddess means to the Trojans,’ Odysseus went on. ‘If I can find a way to sneak into the city at night and then get out again with the statue, the Trojans will be terrified. They’ll think she’s deserted them.’
Helen looked doubtful. ‘And remember,’ Odysseus added. ‘If the Greeks win and you’ve helped us, it will make things a lot easier for you, won’t it?’
‘Mmmm,’ said Helen thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it will. There is a sewer in the garden. Paris says it runs out of the city by the south wall. You could try that.’
‘Thanks,’ said Odysseus. ‘You’ve been a great help,’ and he turned to go.
‘Do you fancy staying for a bit?’ asked Helen. ‘I’ve got some lovely cream cakes, and Paris won’t be home for ages yet.’ She smiled, and little dimples appeared just at the top of her plump cheeks.
‘Not just now, thanks,’ replied Odysseus.
When he arrived back at the Greek camp, the first person to see him was Philoctetes. ‘What’s this filthy beggar doing here?’ demanded the new General. ‘Go away, before I set the dogs on you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’m not a beggar. It’s me, Odysseus,’ said the beggar.
‘How dare you say you’re Odysseus,’ replied Philoctetes with that sneering look on his face. ‘You’re wearing filthy rags, you smell like a sewer; you’re not a great hero, you’re an old tramp. Guards, whip him for his insolence!’
Three burly guards with bullwhips flogged Odysseus until his back was raw, and all the while Philoctetes looked on, his one good eye blazing with triumph. Then, when the whipping was over, he said, ‘I do apologise. I seem to have made a mistake. You really are Odysseus, aren’t you? Sorry about the 150 lashes.’
‘You know what,’ said Odysseus, fighting back the pain, ‘I really hate you.’
Late that night, when Diomedes had finished bandaging Odysseus’ back, the two friends made their way to the place on the south wall which Helen had described. Behind a clump of rushes and rubble, Odysseus could just make out a brown muddy stream. ‘It must be the sewer,’ he said.
Diomedes’ pimply nose twitched in the night air. ‘I think you’re right,’ he sniffed.
They cleared the rubble and behind it found a dark tunnel. Climbing in, they began to inch their way forward. Dark sludge oozed between their feet. Deeper and deeper they went until they were up to their waists in it. Slimy, unseen wriggly things nibbled at their legs and brushed their faces. Rats rustled and chattered in the brickwork. Then, ahead of them, they saw a tiny ring of light and struggled on until they reached a squidgy, rotting manhole. With all his strength, Odysseus heaved it open and they could see the outline of Paris’ garden … they were inside Troy!
Silently, the two heroes padded down the main street until ahead they could make out the little round church of the Goddess, and stationed round it, the silhouettes of eight Trojan guards.
Odysseus and Diomedes disappeared into the darkness.
THUNK! The first two guards sank to the floor with knives in their backs.
DUNK! The skulls of the second two crashed into each other.
BANG! Two fists sent the next two flying.
BOING! Two swords flashed and the final two lay lifeless on the ground.
Odysseus drew a deep breath, then slowly opened the church door. There were flickering lights and weird music, and through the strange-smelling smoke which drifted round the church Odysseus could make out the ivory pedestal on which the Goddess rested – fat and white and smiling.
Diomedes stayed on guard at the door while Odysseus tiptoed in, gently lifted the Goddess off her pedestal and threw her to Diomedes.
A sigh echoed round the church; the lights flickered faster and faster; the music got louder and out of tune; and the wafts of smoke became great choking clouds which filled the whole room. Suddenly Odysseus felt sick and dizzy and frightened.
CRACK! The roof split in two and bricks came tumbling down from the ceiling. From somewhere they heard a priestess screeching.
Blindly, Odysseus staggered towards the door, his head reeling and pounding from the smoke. Spikes were shooting up through the floor. The air he breathed tasted of emerald-green poison.
‘Quick! Back up the street,’ called Diomedes huskily, dragging his friend behind him.
But terrifying visions began to appear in front of Odysseus’ eyes – snake-headed monsters in every doorway, huge octopuses clutching at his feet. He stabbed and stabbed at them but they disappeared into the darkness.
Then Diomedes heard the heavy tread of soldiers running towards them. He heaved Odysseus back into Paris’ garden and pulled him down the sewer. Deeper and deeper they waded, but the soldiers were close behind and gaining. There was torchlight and angry shouts and Diomedes could see the glint of armour.
CHUNG! CHUNG! He hacked away at the old wooden props which held up the crumbling brickwork roof. There was a creaking, a thundering; Diomedes dragged Odysseus forward and WHUUMPH! the whole sewer collapsed in a vast pile of rubble. They could hear the cries and shrieks of terrified soldiers. Then nothing. Silence, except for the rustle of the rats.
‘We’re nearly there,’ said Diomedes and cautiously moved onward.
But behind him Odysseus – white-faced and staring – stood still as a stone. His back was throbbing and his mind was spinning. He was awake, but it was as though he was dreaming. And in this wide-awake nightmare Diomedes was changing shape. He wasn’t Diomedes any longer. He was Achilles, pointing his finger at him, accusing Odysseus of having sent him into battle to die.
‘You’re dead,’ mumbled Odysseus. ‘Leave me alone.’
But now the figure was transformed into someone else. The ghostly shape of Hector – dead Hector – stood before him.
‘I didn’t want you to die,’ sobbed Odysseus and shook his head and closed his eyes. But when he opened them again, it was Ajax who stood in front of him. Poor stupid Ajax; and he was taking the rope from round his neck and shuffling towards him.
‘NO!’ cried Odysseus, and thrust his sword at the apparition. ‘DIE!’ he screamed, but in the middle of his nightmare he couldn’t see that his blade was in fact plunging towards the unprotected back of his best friend. The White Goddess was taking her revenge.
Just in time, Diomedes turned, ducked and SMACK! he belted Odysseus under the chin with the base of the White Goddess, then flung his friend over his shoulders and carried him unconscious to the Greek camp.
Meanwhile, inside Troy, Paris was dragging Helen along the battlements. ‘You betrayed me, didn’t you!’ he shouted. ‘You betrayed all of us! Only you knew about that sewer. For ten years my people have been laying down their lives for you and what do you do in return? Conspire with the Greeks to steal our Goddess. Now, once and for all, you must choose whose side you’re on. Choose! Them out there, or us in here – which is it to be?’ And he pointed out over the no-man’s-land between the city and the shore.
Out in no-man’s-land, Philoctetes lay waiting. He listened very carefully to where the angry shouts were coming from, then drew his silver bow. THUNK! Helen no longer had to make the choice. Her husband, Paris, lay dead in her arms.
When Odysseus woke up, someone was mopping his forehead. Slowly he opened his eyes. The visions had gone. He was back in his tent, his old friend Diomedes was by his bedside and outside some soldiers were singing a drinking song. Odysseus smiled faintly. ‘Now all I need to do,’ he whispered, ‘is open the gates of the city. Then we’ll be back home by Christmas – no problem!’
Somewhere a fox started barking. The last thing Odysseus saw before he fell back into a deep sleep was the White Goddess on the table by his side, and she seemed to be smiling at him…