Action Adventure / The Trojan War: Chapter 5
FIVE
I had thought, Diomedes, that when I made my first kill I’d feel exhilarated. In fact, I felt nothing. My mind was numb and the world of men seemed distant, as if a gauze had descended between me and it. In a daze I became aware that Achilleus was at my side, pounding me on the back and shouting something I could neither hear nor understand. Then my father’s face swam into view, his eyes looking closely into mine as if searching for something that had fled away. The sky seemed unnaturally bright, as it does when the sun breaks through for the first time on an otherwise dull day, and the people gathering about me seemed to be slowed, as if moving under water. Ajax, the son of Telemon, appeared before me, his face close to mine, shouting something unintelligible and spattering me with his spittle. Restraining arms enfolded him, when, as if in a dream, he unsheathed his sword and shook it menacingly in my face. Then a tug set my legs in motion and my father, leading me by the hand like a child, dragged me away from that place of death.
As I stumbled along in the wake of my father, I looked over my shoulder at the scene behind. The body of Telemon still lay where it had fallen, his blood soaking the ground all about, while Ajax struggled to break free from those who sought to hold him. Suddenly my hearing returned and I could understand the terrible oaths and curses that he shouted after me. I began, then, to tremble and shake like an old man with no fire to warm him on a cold winter’s day and couldn’t stop. My legs seemed to lose all strength and, in wonder, I realised I was in danger of simply collapsing to the ground. My father, however, anticipated this and, dragging my arm over his shoulders, he all but carried me back to our encampment. I can’t remember having felt true fear during my fight with Telemon, but now, Diomedes, I was sick with it. In the years since I’ve seen other men react so, but at that moment I felt that I too would die. With a dread certainty I looked down at my body for the wound through which, I was sure, my life was draining away. Blood there was aplenty, but none of it, as far as I could see, seemed to be mine.
“Am I dying, father,” I asked.
Turning his head to look at me, my father smiled. “No, you’re not dying. You’re in shock, that’s all. You’ll recover soon. I felt the same way when I killed my first man. I think it happens to everyone, or most at least. Despatching a soul to Hades should never be taken lightly, but, in time, it does become easier. Don’t worry, the feeling will soon pass.”
“And did it?” Diomedes asked in awe. “Soon pass I mean.”
The old man stared at his feet, mulling over this unexpected question. “Yes, I suppose it did. My father was quite right, as time went by and I gained in experience, killing did become easier. But I always remembered his belief that it shouldn’t be taken lightly and have tried to honour the memory of those who’ve fallen before me in battle. Yet, as I’ve grown old, this doesn’t seem to be enough for those I killed when they sought only to protect their homes and families. Those faces haunt me, as do the faces of their kinsfolk I helped send into slavery far from the land of their birth. Don’t be fooled by your own poetry or that of other bards, Diomedes. Glory soon palls and it becomes harder to distinguish in memory one battle from another after a while. But the horror – that remains. In old age it visits you with nightmares in which it’s your family that’s taken into captivity and your sons that lie bloody and broken upon the ground. I’ve seen sights, Diomedes…... But I get ahead of myself again. Let’s return to my youth when the whole world opened up before me and a glorious future still beckoned.”
Restored by a goblet of mulled wine and a bowl of hot food, wrapped in furs and sitting before the fire, I began to talk of my battle – describing it in detail as if no one but me had witnessed it. This too, I discovered later, was a symptom of my malaise. My father listened, as I gabbled on and on, and didn’t try to stop me. He simply nodded and waited patiently for me to talk myself out. Eventually I lapsed into silence, my need to relive the fight having finally exhausted itself.
By now the skies had darkened as the long winter night began and I must have dozed for I’ve no memory of the herald arriving from the encampment of Telemon, now that of Ajax, his son. I awoke to find him deep in conversation with my father as they shared wine and food before the fire. Through the flames I saw both men look at me.
“So, you’re with us once again,” my father said. “This is Ormenos, sent by Ajax to invite us to the funeral of his father at dawn tomorrow.”
Shaking my head, as much to clear it as indicate my unwillingness, I told them I could not.
“You must,” Ormenos insisted. “Telemon was a warrior of great fame and it’s fitting that the man who defeated him – the man who’ll surely win great renown himself one day – should be present. Ajax will consider it a great insult if you don’t come.”
I knew this to be true, but remained reluctant. “Ajax cursed me and must surely hate me,” I replied. “If our situations were reversed I know I’d kill him on sight and throw his body on the funeral pyre to placate the spirit of my dead father.”
My father chuckled, a sound so out of place that I looked sharply at him. “Don’t be in such a hurry to place my ashes in the urn,” he said. “Ormenos is right, we must both go. You forget, Iphidamos, Telemon was known to me. Indeed I counted him as a friend and sincerely mourn his passing. But his time had come and the instrument of his death is unimportant when considering how his life should be honoured. Oremenos,” he continued, turning his attention to the herald, “tell your master that we’ll both attend and don’t insult him by mentioning my son’s reluctance. He doesn’t fear death at the hands of Ajax, but is weary with killing and doesn’t wish to rob your master’s house of its new leader.”
Oremenos stood. “Great Phlebas,” he said with studied politeness. “I wouldn’t add to my master’s burden by urging a fight upon him while his father’s body still awaits the pyre. Be assured that I’ll report your acceptance of his invitation without further comment.”
“And if he presses you to describe my son’s demeanour?” my father asked casually.
The herald didn’t answer immediately but looked thoughtfully at me.
“Then I’ll tell the truth,” he responded. “That I’ve spoken with a bloodied hero who’ll pay homage to the man he killed and bring nothing but honour to the house of Ajax.”
Satisfied my father let the herald go about his business, while I stared incredulously at him. The contempt that I’d held my father in of late boiled to the surface. “Why did you ask such a question?” I asked angrily.
“You’ve much to learn,” my father replied calmly. “You’ve spent time on the field of battle with such men as Ajax and must, by now, have some inkling as to their cast of mind. Warriors are like strutting peacocks and are quick to take offence. They’ll fight each other, by and large, for the most trivial of reasons, seeking glory though it may cost the lives of even their closest friends. The glory that I’ve won for our house has been on the field of battle where it does the most good. Today you’ve experienced at first hand the madness that afflicts us as a caste. A great war is coming and we cannot, as a people, afford to fall upon each other. Remember, Iphidamos, that today you’ve robbed your Lord of one of his most trusted friends and have put at risk the alliance that binds Mykene and Salamis together. With luck Ajax, despite his anger, will heed the advice of his father’s oldest friends and will, for the sake of the greater good, let this matter drop. If not, then you’ll have to fight him too, inflicting further damage on the understanding between our two countries and robbing Lord Agamemnon of yet another sorely needed warrior. Any hint of weakness on your part may prompt Ajax to challenge you after he’s committed his father’s ashes to the ground with dire consequences for us all. Oremenos understands this and, for the good of his young master and our Overking, will report that his father died at the hands of a hero in the making.”
“Are you suggesting he did not?” I replied hotly.
“That, my son, is in the hands of the Gods. You can fight, as you’ve proven this day. Now you must learn diplomacy or you’ll die young, fighting those who should be your friends rather than the enemies of your king. Think! Telemon died today uselessly, falling prey to impulses he should have mastered when he was young. He carelessly threw his life away at the very moment when his sword arm is most needed and his council in battle will be most sorely missed. I understand that you thirst for honour and glory, but find it in battle where you can increase your Lord’s dominion and the wealth of your kin.”
“Your father was a wise man,” Diomedes suggested.
“Yes, I believe now that he was, although he didn’t. Certainly I’ve seen many warriors give up their lives for the most trivial of imagined insults, robbing their tribe of their most precious asset. Luckily I heeded my father’s advice and, as you see, have been fortunate in increasing my family’s wealth. Of greater value, I used to believe, was that I lived long enough to provide my people with healthy, strong sons, to defend our land and increase our power. Only now, when the northern barbarians press us so close, do I understand the folly of this belief.”
“What do you mean?” Diomedes asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Don’t you wonder, Diomedes, why poets such as yourself sing songs of battles that took place so long ago?”
“Isn’t it because men were greater then?”
“No, it’s because there were more of them. Know this, Diomedes. The sacking of Troy marked not the growth of our power as a people, but the beginning of our decline. In two great campaigns we destroyed the Cretans, who had dominated the seas with their fleet of ships, and the Trojans who acted as a shield against Asia. We imagined, in our hubris, that we’d donned their mantle and that the whole world was ours for the taking. We were wrong. All we’d done was to place ourselves in the forefront of a struggle we didn’t understand and for which we lacked the necessary resources. And then, failing to understand the position we’d placed ourselves in, we sought to expand even further. Madness, Diomedes, sheer madness! We expended our power when we should have been carefully hoarding it against the future. And that’s why you sing of heroes from the past for that’s where they belong. They’re all dead, many before they sired sons to replace them, and we’re left in a weakened state, unable to defend ourselves against the flood that’s about to engulf us.”
“Surely you’re wrong,” Diomedes countered. “Mykene has never been more powerful. Our fleets have raided far and wide and our treasuries are full with gold taken from our enemies.”
“But at what cost? My own sons are dead, killed on some foreign shore, leaving me with but one surviving grandson. And ask yourself this, Diomedes. Why is it that our raids have ceased? Why is it we have sought of late to make treaties with our former enemies? Is it because they tremble, defeated, before us? No, it’s because we no longer have the strength to continue and must now turn to face a new threat from the north with reduced numbers of men. That’s why. My father, you see, was only half right. The seeds of our destruction lie far deeper than in a simple propensity for fighting among ourselves. It lies in our entire way of life. War doesn’t change men, Diomedes, it merely reveals them for what they are.”
“You overstate the case,” Diomedes insisted. “We’re richer now than we’ve ever been.”
Iphidamos sighed. “And will you fight with a gold sword, clad yourself in gold armour and defend yourself with a gold shield when the barbarians come? Our riches only serve to make us a target, while our kings are reduced to bribing our enemies in order to keep them from our door. What will we do when the gold runs out and we lack the strength to seize more?”
Diomedes squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Hopefully such a grim fate, if it ever comes about at all, lies far in the future.”
“You’re not convinced,” Iphidamos replied with resignation. “Listen then as I continue my tale and strip away your admiration for the past.”
The next morning, before Helios had himself risen above the earth, my father and I made our way to the encampment of Ajax to attend his father’s funeral pyre. As you surely know, Diomedes, while we in Mykene have taken to burying our dead with the treasures accumulated during life, our cousins elsewhere have often retained the older custom of the funeral pyre. This, in my opinion, is a much better practice and I’ve made arrangements for my own body to be disposed of in such a way. I see no attraction in placing a body in the cold ground to be eaten by worms, or in denying a family wealth hard won, for mere vanity.
The funeral pyre had been erected just outside the encampment and, lit by a score of torches, stood in the space between four gnarled trees. Around it were gathered all the Lords of Achaia, dressed in their finest clothes as befitted such a momentous event. In the forefront, his back to the pyre, stood Ajax, receiving his guests and accepting from each a small token to be burned with the body of his father. Soon it was our turn. Grasping his hand and looking close into his eyes, my father greeted Ajax and hailed him as the successor of Telemon. Ajax muttered something I didn’t catch and then it was my turn. My hands were trembling, I must confess, and it took all my will to make them obey the dictates of custom. In a faltering voice I greeted Ajax and hailed his dead father as a fallen hero. It wasn’t the fear of what Ajax might do that afflicted me so, but what he might say. I truly believed he might say something to make me feel ashamed and that I’d have nothing to say in reply. I needn’t have feared, for Ajax said nothing. He merely inclined his head slightly to accept my condolences and shook the hands, firmly clasped within his, that had killed his father. Our slave then presented him with the gift of meat we’d brought for the pyre and our part was over.
The greetings being completed and the gifts presented, Ajax stepped up upon a large stone to deliver the eulogy. With pride he recounted his father’s many battles, named the enemy heroes he’d laid low and described the treasures he’d brought home. This completed he then went on to describe Telemon as a man and a father. How he’d played with his children when they were young and how he’d trained them for war as they grew older. He recalled amusing anecdotes that made us laugh, despite the solemnity of the occasion, and tragedies that left us sad. And, by the time he’d finished, Diomedes, I felt I had both a greater understanding of the man I’d killed and a greater admiration. I was, in truth, moved to tears. Having finished his address, Ajax, with the sun just breasting the horizon, dismounted from the stone and stood back as our Overking, Agamemnon, paid his respects by setting the first torch to the pyre. But the wood was wet, his torch sputtered and went out and slaves had to finish the task. Driven on by Calchas, who cursed and spat at them, they soon set the pyre ablaze, the smoke from the damp wood rising in billows to greet the sun and be scattered by the wind amongst the attendant trees.
Moved beyond words I left my father’s side to seek out Ajax who stood staring at the blaze in the company of Agamemnon and Calchas. Overcome with genuine grief, I fell to my knees before them and bowed my head.
“Great Ajax,” I said. “Your words have pierced my very soul and I humbly beg your forgiveness. In my pride I’ve brought a great man to an untimely end and robbed you, not just of a father, but also a cherished companion. No gift I could bring today could recompense you for that and so I offer the only fitting thing I possess – my life.” And with that I bared my neck to his sword and awaited his retribution.
No blade descended, however, just the hand of Ajax as he laid it upon my head. “My father died,” he said, “as he would have wished – cut down not by a hated enemy but by a fellow Achaian. You displayed great generosity in offering to end the fight once blood had been drawn and it was my father’s decision to continue the duel to the death. There will be no blood feud between our families. The matter ends here.”
He turned away then, leaving me there with tears coursing down my cheeks. I lifted my head to watch him go and became aware that my Overking still stood before me. Roughly he grabbed my tunic at the neck and raised me to my feet. Beside him Calchas stared balefully at the pendant about my neck and gritted his blackened teeth while he muttered spells.
“Ajax has forgiven you at my behest,” the King said. “But know this, Iphidamos, I have not. You’ve taken from me a close friend and a valued councillor and your apology to Ajax, heartfelt though it is, offers me little recompense.”
Looking over my shoulder Agamemnon saw my anxious father approach and called out to him. “Lord Phlebas. You and your family have given great service to my house over the years and, for the sake of that, I’ll not take your son’s head. But mark my words well. This boy owes me a debt and it will be paid. Before the walls of Ilios he’ll perform the tasks of two men – that of Iphidamos and Telemon both. Nothing less will divert my wrath and allow your son to take his place among my captains.”
Pushing me roughly aside, Agamemnon stalked off, leaving me pale and shaken. Calchas stayed to shake a handful of bones in my face, compounding my confusion, before he too left, chasing his master’s heels.
“You’ve made your peace with Ajax and I’m proud of you for that,” my father said quietly. “But I fear you’ve made a much greater and more powerful enemy of the man you must serve as well as his evil priest. You’ll be in great danger at Ilios, boy, and not just from the Trojans.”
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
This 74 word review has not been unlocked.
Well told in the style of the Greek Saga’s.Historicly fairly accurate.Good flow in the storyline,only lacking in physical discriptions of the platers,perhaps this is addressed earlier in the book.Enjoyable,I would read the whole thing.
- add/view comments (0)
Great piece, I really like the pace and flow of it. Two things though: You needn’t set so many criteria. And secondly, there should be a comma before the secont speech part, ie: “I knew this to be true, but remained reluctant. “Ajax cursed me and must surely hate me,” I replied. “If our situations were reversed I know I’d kill him on sight and throw his body on the funeral pyre to placate the spirit of my dead father.” ” Should be “I knew this to be true, but remained reluctant. “Ajax cursed me and must surely hate me,” I replied[,] “If our situations were reversed I know I’d kill him on sight and throw his body on the funeral pyre to placate the spirit of my dead father.” ”
Other than that minor piece of syntax I think this is a really nice piece, keep up the good work. I look forward to reading more. Cheers.
This 453 word review has not been unlocked.
Very nice. Not quite as easy to read as the last section (however that is to be expected since this is the part of the story where things pause between conflicts.) You do a fairly decent job keeping things interesting. The only thing I might look at is the timing where you break from the story and go to the dialogue between Diomedes and the story teller. I kind of think it may do better if it came before we see all the symptoms of his first kill.
Either way, you’ve got a great story here.
Showing 1 - 5 of 5
Review item
Add to faves
GENERAL
REVIEW QUEUE
Ratings & Rankings
