The Greek army was now hopelessly divided. There were two camps and two leaders.
Agamemnon was furious and took it out on his men. He woke them up at 4 o’clock every morning and made them do exercises: one hundred press-ups, one hundred sit-ups and a five-kilometre run. They became extremely fit but they weren’t having much fun.
Meanwhile Achilles’ men spent their days surfing and sunbathing. They were less fit but they had incredible tans.
One morning, as usual, Agamemnon’s troops were charging at sandbags with their lances while Achilles’ army whistled and catcalled and generally indicated that they thought Agamemnon’s men were a bunch of idiots.
Suddenly Odysseus stopped and frowned. ‘I think I hear something,’ he said.
‘It’s only Patroclus and the rest of Achilles’ lads,’ replied Diomedes.
But Odysseus shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s a low rumbling noise – like thunder.’
Diomedes could hear it now. So could the rest of the men. They turned towards Troy – and what they saw filled them with terror.
In the middle of the Trojan plain was a solitary figure on a white horse. He was bared to the waist, covered in tattoos and his sword was pointing straight towards Agamemnon. It was Hector, the Trojan hero. Behind him a huge army rumbled out of the Trojan gates: two thousand horsemen in dark blue leather with scarlet sashes, followed by wave upon wave of foot soldiers with axes and scarlet shields.
‘Get back to the tents and fetch your weapons!’ yelled Agamemnon. But the Trojans were galloping furiously across the plain now and the Greeks had no time. They panicked and started to run this way and that in blind terror…
Over in Achilles’ camp the men were waiting for their orders. Should they fight? After all it was their fellow Greeks who were under attack. ‘Serves them right,’ said Achilles. ‘Let’s go for a swim.’
Meanwhile, in desperation, Odysseus had drummed a few of his least panicky men into line and Diomedes was passing out the lances which he’d yanked from the sandbags. The first wave of Trojan horsemen burst on them. The Greeks hurled their lances and brought the Trojans tumbling to the ground. They grabbed the dead Trojans’ swords and turned to face the second wave.
More Greeks were running back to help. Agamemnon had found a huge ball and chain and was whirling it round his head, crushing Trojan skulls like coconuts.
Menelaus had ripped up a tent by its tent pole and was thwacking at the legs of the Trojan horses.
Then big Ajax appeared, waving a sword the size of a small tree and carrying a vast shield. Suddenly from behind it a tiny man popped out, threw a tiny lance and disappeared behind the shield again.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Odysseus.
‘He’s big Ajax’s cousin,’ explained Diomedes.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Little Ajax.’
Once more the little man appeared from behind the shield, then – OOOFF – he let out a gasp of surprise. A Trojan spear was sticking right through him.
‘Stretcher bearers!’ shouted big Ajax, and two men came ducking and weaving towards him with a leather stretcher.
But – WHOOSH – out of nowhere the leading bearer fell to the ground with an arrow in his eye. It was one thing to fire at soldiers, but someone was deliberately shooting the medical teams.
Fifty metres away, skulking high up a tree and well out of range, was a bowman. He was wearing scarlet eyeshadow and he had dark blue braids plaited in his hair. It was the Trojan prince, Paris. He let fly another arrow and – WHUMPH – the second bearer fell to the ground.
‘We can’t stay here!’ shouted Agamemnon. ‘We’re sitting ducks. Get down to the beach or they’ll burn our ships.’
On and on came the Trojans with Hector in their centre, smiling and relaxed, his sword cutting down any Greek who crossed his path.
Soon the whole of Agamemnon’s camp was in flames. Even Agamemnon’s gold lamé tent was melting and shrinking like a burnt crisp packet. Step by step the Greeks retreated until they came to the high-water mark where their boats lay beached.
‘Drag them down to the shore and cast off!’ yelled Agamemnon.
‘You’re joking,’ replied Odysseus. ‘That’s surrender.’
‘Yes, stand and fight!’ roared Diomedes.
‘All right,’ grumbled Agamemnon. ‘I was only testing to see how brave you were.’
Back at their camp Achilles’ men sat and stared dumbly at the slaughter.
‘Aren’t you going to fight?’ shouted Patroclus suddenly.
‘No, I’m not,’ said Achilles. ‘Do my back, Patroclus,’ and he passed him the suntan oil. But Patroclus hurled it to the ground.
‘They’re our comrades, Achilles. If you don‘t want to fight, let me wear your armour. The Trojans are scared stiff of you. If they think you’re joining the battle they’ll lose their nerve and our countrymen will be saved. Let me fight for you. Please.’
Achilles looked worried, but then he nodded and smiled.
By now the Greeks had been driven up on to the decks of their ships and Trojan horsemen were riding round and round them firing blazing arrows into the rigging. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the Trojan foot soldiers were slinging grappling hooks and rope ladders over the side and trying to climb on board.
The Greek heroes were doing their best. Ajax’s boat was blazing and six Trojans raced along the deck towards him. But Ajax grabbed one by the legs, whirled him round his head, and knocked the others down like ninepins.
Poor Diomedes had an arrow through his foot pinning him to the deck. But he was fighting round and round in circles cutting down every Trojan in his path.
And as for Odysseus, he was being chased up the rigging by half-a-dozen axe-wielding maniacs. Higher and higher he climbed until he had nowhere left to climb, just a fifty-metre drop below him. Desperately, he broke off the top of the mast and hurled it at the leading Trojan but the others kept coming. In ten seconds he knew he’d be dead. He thought of Ithaca, he thought of Penelope. He thought what it would be like to have five swords stuck in his chest.
Then suddenly there was a cry of terror and the Trojans froze. On the beaches, in the water, on deck and up the mast there was silence. Why? What had they seen that could make them so terrified at the very moment when they had the Greeks on the run?
Out of the sun, huge and shining like a mirror, a mammoth figure in silver and gold armour appeared.
Then a cry went up – it was the same cry from both sides, but the Greeks screamed with joy, the Trojans with terror.
‘It’s Achilles! Achilles has joined the battle. Achilles, the greatest fighter in the world. Achilles who can crush an elephant with one hand.’
And the Trojans yelped, ‘Let’s get out of here!’ And they all began to run back towards Troy.
‘Stop! Stop!’ called Hector. But a dreadful panic had seized his men. Some fell, others trampled over them. Soon the city gates were choked with two thousand soldiers trying to squeeze back into Troy and still the terrifying figure kept coming. Would it kill all of them? Would the war end this very afternoon?’
A dying Trojan lay in the figure’s path. He’d never done anything particularly noteworthy in his life. He was a very ordinary soldier, but this was his moment of glory. He reached up and clutched the leg of the huge silver and gold monster. Why he did it, no one will ever know. Maybe he was just begging for mercy. But the monster stumbled, fell, its helmet rolled off and a shout went up, ‘It’s not Achilles, it’s Patroclus!’
Suddenly there was a bloodthirsty roar – the most bloodthirsty any man has ever heard – and the last thing Patroclus ever saw was the entire Trojan army bearing down on him and the points of two thousand spears speeding towards his throat.
Back at the beach, the Greeks were putting out the fires and regrouping when they heard the news of the death of Patroclus.
‘Go and tell Achilles,’ ordered Agamemnon.
‘You’re the commander,’ replied Odysseus. ‘It’s your job.’
‘I’m not going on my own,’ said Agamemnon. ‘You come with me.’
Achilles was lying on his bed in his dressing gown.
‘What do you want?’ he asked sulkily.
At first Agamemnon didn’t dare to answer.
‘Tell him his friend Patroclus is dead,’ whispered Odysseus.
‘Your friend Patroclus is dead,’ said Agamemnon.
‘Say you’re sorry, it’s all your fault,’ whispered Odysseus.
‘I’m sorry, it’s all my fault,’ said Agamemnon. ‘You can have the slave girl back if you like.’
But Achilles wasn’t listening. His face was drained of blood; it looked like a death mask. Then, letting out a howl like a wolf, he pulled out his huge, golden knife and lifted his hand to cut through his own throat. In a flash Odysseus grabbed his arms and looked deep into his face.
‘Revenge,’ he hissed. ‘You don’t want death, you want revenge.’
Achilles’ eyes half focused. His mind was in a turmoil. Then, ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Call the men. There’s going to be a massacre.’
‘Take it easy,’ urged Odysseus. ‘Let the men rest first. They haven’t even had their breakfast yet.’
Achilles’ eyes clouded over.
‘Patroclus always used to make a lovely breakfast,’ he said. ‘He used to cut the toast into little soldiers.’ Then he sighed and asked softly, ‘Who killed him?’
‘The whole Trojan army,’ answered Agamemnon.
‘And where’s his body?’
Odysseus pointed towards the walls of Troy. ‘I shouldn’t think there’s much left of it though,’ he said.
In a moment Achilles was up and running across the battlefield. He found Patroclus looking like a hedgehog with two thousand spines, and Hector’s sword plunged deep into his heart.
With tears in his eyes Achilles plucked out the spears, picked up the corpse, and carried it back to the beach.
In silence he unbuckled the armour from his dead friend and put it on. For a moment he stood barefoot and helmetless, looking at the body of Patroclus. Then he took a sword and shield…
Now you may be interested in this shield because as shields go it was pretty extraordinary. However, if you aren’t, this book is not going to try and persuade you. It’s perfectly all right if you rush on to the next page.
For those of you who have stayed put, the shield was of solid bronze inlaid with ebony and ivory and had been forged by an extremely grumpy metalsmith called Hephaistos who had bad breath and a limp.
In the centre of the shield was a hideous gorgon’s head with adders and cobras writhing in its hair. Its mouth was full of razor sharp teeth which held the wriggling bodies of its victims, and slobber dribbled down its cheeks. This slobber dribbled into a stream which was full of piranha fish who were viciously attacking a donkey which was crossing the stream with a hunchbacked pedlar on its back. The pedlar was making his way towards a little village on the other side of the stream where there was a fete with sideshows and roundabouts and guess-the-weight-of-the-cake competitions and a little band with a fat singer and parties of jolly peasants dancing and drinking huge barrels of wine. Up above, the gorgon’s eyes were twinkling with sadistic delight and its huge green hairy claws were bearing down on the village. And looking up at it was a tiny little boy and he was firing a teeny weeny little arrow at the gorgon from a teeny weeny little bow.
‘That’s some shield,’ whispered Odysseus.
‘Yes,’ said Achilles. ‘But it’s murder to clean.’ Then he slowly walked over to his horse. He was going to fight the Trojans alone.
As he put one bare foot into the stirrup, the horse turned its head and looked at Achilles. ‘You know you’re going to die, don‘t you?’ it said.
‘Pardon?’ replied Achilles. As far as he knew his horse had never spoken before, and he didn’t think it had chosen a very good time to start.
‘Out there on the battlefield,’ continued the horse. ‘You’ll be pushing up daisies tomorrow.’
‘Yes, probably,’ said Achilles in a rather irritated voice, ‘but that’s all part of the job, isn’t it?’ And he kicked the horse into a trot, and galloped towards Troy.
There were small clusters of Trojans dotted all over the battlefield and when he came to them he killed them. Against Achilles no man stood a chance.
A river wound its way across the plain. As he began to cross, a whole platoon of Trojans rose from the banks and attacked him. Waist deep in water he fought them, thrusting and cutting and dragging them under the surface. On and on he spurred his horse. Deeper and deeper they went until horse and rider were completely submerged, but still Achilles went on fighting.
Now he was fighting the river itself. Water and weed and Trojan bodies were all caught up in the whirl of Achilles’ fury. There ahead of him were the walls of the city. The gates were barred and every single Trojan had disappeared – every single Trojan, that is, except one. Standing in front of the main gate was Hector.
The two great heroes faced each other. Hector with a handful of throwing spears gently bobbing up and down in his hand and Achilles, bareheaded, barefooted, his eyes blank and unblinking, with his sword held loosely by his side.
Hector threw a spear. Achilles caught it and he snapped it in two. Hector threw another and another, but each one he threw Achilles caught and broke, until he was down to his final spear. Hector looked deep into the eyes of his enemy. And though he knew he was the greatest warrior in Troy and that at this moment Troy depended on him, he realised that now was not the time to fight.
‘Open the gates,’ he whispered softly to his fellow Trojans. ‘I’m coming back in.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said a voice from behind the gates. It was Paris and he was slightly shocked that his brother should dare to suggest such a thing. ‘This is your day of glory,’ he reminded him.
‘No it isn’t,’ whispered Hector.
‘Yes it is.’
‘No it isn’t. Open the gates.’
‘You kill Achilles,’ said Paris. ‘Then I’ll open the gates.’
Once more Hector looked at his enemy. Should I beg for mercy? he thought. Shall I offer him Helen and the thousand chests of gold? But in Achilles’ eyes Hector could see nothing but madness. There was only one course of action for a sensible hero to take at a moment like this. He ran away.
He sprinted as fast as he could round the walls of the city to escape from the barefooted madman who wanted to kill him.
But Trojan heads were popping up all over the battlements; and they were not heads he particularly wanted to see at a moment like this: his father, his brothers, his cousins, his second cousins, his aunties.
‘Stand and fight,’ they were screaming. ‘Turn round and slaughter him.’
But faster and faster Hector ran, with the sound of Achilles’ feet padding in his ears. Until suddenly the sound stopped. Still running, he looked behind him. Achilles was nowhere.
He’d made it. He’d live to fight another day.
THUMP! He’d run into something – a suit of armour, a silver and gold suit of armour, Achilles’ armour. Hector drew back his arm to hurl his final spear. Achilles’ sword flashed. Hector fell to the ground.
‘Kill me,’ gasped Hector. ‘But let my body he treated with honour.’
Slowly, deliberately, Achilles shook his head. Then the Trojans watched in horror as he hacked their hero into the dust. Achilles tied the body to the saddle, mounted his horse, and slowly rode round Troy with dead Hector dragging in the dust behind him.
The Trojans watched in silent horror. Hector’s father felt his heart break. And as for Paris, he beat his fists against the battlements in frustration. How dare anyone treat his brother like this? Quickly, he ran into the town, heading for the temple of the Goddess. He burst in through the tiny door, and seized the old priestess by the shoulders.
‘Poison,’ he hissed. ‘Fetch me some deadly poison.’
Round and round the walls of Troy rode Achilles until the sun began to set. Then he yanked on his horse’s head and rode back towards the Greek camp. High up on the battlements Paris dipped an arrow into the stinking bowl of green smoking venom and drew his bow. The arrow sped towards its target and VUMP! bit deep into Achilles’ heel. But Achilles didn’t flinch. He just kept on riding, dragging Hector’s body behind him.
By the time he arrived back at camp it was dusk – a wet misty cold dusk. The whole Greek army watched in silence as he rode up to Agamemnon.
Then he stopped, slowly toppled off his horse, and crashed on to Hector’s lifeless body.
Odysseus bent down beside him and lifted up his eyelids. He turned to Agamemnon. ‘He’s dead,’ he said. ‘Achilles is dead.’
‘I told him that would happen,’ grumbled the horse. But no one was listening.