Sadly, we’d missed those events, but today Achilles’ need for revenge would overcome his grief and remorse. Today, he would re-join the battle.
We didn’t know it yet, but a lot of people were going to die today.
It was a normal day. I was on the walls with Peterson. Kal and Markham were further along, trying to estimate how many more ships Agamemnon had lost during the night. At this rate, the Trojans didn’t need to do anything but wait it out. So what took Hector and his army outside the walls was anyone’s guess. Homer puts it down to godly intervention. And for all I know it may have been.
Trumpets sounded around the town and voices were raised both inside and outside the walls.
Within the city, excitement boiled in the streets. People raced to the walls. Something was happening. And it was happening now.
It was as we were jostling for position on the walls that Roberts nudged me.
‘Look up.’
I glanced up and to my right.
There, on the walls above the Scaean Gate, exactly as Homer had recounted, Hector, the Trojan hero, was talking quietly to his wife, Andromache, who carried their infant son, Astyanax. They stood a little apart from everyone else, their heads close together. We were too far away to hear the words, but their body language was eloquent.
They were saying goodbye.
For me – for all of us – it was the most amazing moment. Legend springing to life right in front of our eyes. Because, if Homer had got this bit right … then this was the day when man-murdering Achilles left his tent to do what he did best …
I let my imagination roam …
With his back to the sea, Agamemnon would be issuing his final orders.
Armoured Achilles would be emerging from his quarters, intent on avenging the death of his friend Patroclus.
Up on MountOlympus, home of the gods, Zeus would be informing them they could fight for whichever side they pleased. There were no holds barred today.
And here, in Troy, Hector was taking leave of his wife and son, both of them knowing in their hearts that this day would be his last and that Troy was doomed.
She clung to him, unable to let him go. He touched her cheek – a small gesture of comfort and courage.
The trumpets sounded again. Hector pulled on his helmet with its unique dyed red horsehair plume and his little boy cried out in fear. Gone was the loving family man and in his place stood Hector the warrior, the hero of Troy, magnificent in his bronze armour, decorated with intricate gold patterns.
The gate opened. Long lines of Trojans marched out. The Greeks lined up to meet them.
It had begun.
Achilles led his screaming Myrmidons directly at the main body of Trojan soldiers who raised their shields and spears. The two sides met with a roar and crash of metal that shook the ground.
Battles are nowhere near as neat and tidy as Homer would have us believe; and most of the time we had no idea who was who. All we could do was discreetly record as much as we could and sort it all out later with the aid of slow-motion replays. I’d been strict about this. The temptation is to forget the recorder and just watch events unfold. I’d described, in horrible detail, what would happen to anyone who forgot why we were here. I had people stationed up and down the walls and two more at the Scaean Gate, as well. I could do no more.
The slaughter was horrific. Vicious and violent. Brutal. Massive. It was hard to see how anyone could survive. Men fought hand to hand, face-to-face, swinging swords, stabbing with spears, even throwing rocks. They clubbed each other with stones and when they ran out of weapons entirely, punched, kicked, and head-butted.
The tide of battle swept across the plain, first one way, and then another. Clouds of dust hung in the air, catching in our throats and making our eyes sting. I’ve fought. I know how thirsty combat can make you. I could only try to imagine how those shrieking, roaring soldiers must feel, baking in their armour under the pitiless sun, choking in their own dust and sweat.
Not that it appeared to slow anyone down. Everywhere, arms rose and fell tirelessly. Some discarded their shields and fought with a sword in either hand. Others used their shields to protect the archers, giving them time to pick their targets.
Occasionally, very occasionally, someone would pull themselves out of the melee and limp back to their own lines, but only very occasionally. In this sort of fighting, you were on your feet or you were dead. There was no halfway house today.
I heeded my own instructions – for once – and kept my attention rigorously on what was happening in front of me, but all the time I was waiting … waiting for some event – big or small – that I could recognise, say ‘there’ – and use this as a starting point to identifying those around me.
And then I did.