The row of twenty men stirred, frowned. What was Ajax doing, to slander Odysseus? Not that Odysseus protested; apparently deaf, he looked at the ground.

‘I came to Troy voluntarily, as did Achilles. No oath bound either of us. I didn’t have to be unmasked when I feigned madness, but Odysseus did. Only two men in this great host fought Hektor in hand to hand combat – Achilles and I. I need no Diomedes to do my dirty work for me. What use would the armour be to Odysseus? His weak left hand couldn’t hope to cast Old Pelion. His red head would sink beneath the weight of that helmet. If you doubt my right to my cousin’s property, then throw it into the middle of a pack of Trojans, and see which one of the two of us pulls it out!’

He limped to his chair and sat down heavily.

Agamemnon looked embarrassed, but it was plain that most of us agreed with what Ajax said. Puzzled, I studied Odysseus. Why did he lay claim to the armour at all?

He moved forwards and stood loosely with his feet apart, the redness of his hair pronounced in the light. Red-haired and left-handed. No divine blood there, for sure.

‘It’s true that I tried to get out of coming to Troy,’ said Odysseus. ‘I knew how long this war would last. Oath notwithstanding, how many of you would voluntarily have joined this expedition if you’d had any idea how long you’d be away?

‘As for Achilles, I’m the sole reason why he came to Troy – I and none other saw through the plot to keep him in Skyros. Ajax was there, but he didn’t see. Ask Nestor, he’ll confirm it.

‘As for ancestry, I ignore Ajax’s vile insinuation. I too am a great-grandson of almighty Zeus.

‘As for physical courage, do any of you doubt mine? I don’t have a better body than anyone else to bolster my valour, but I do very well in battle. If you doubt that, count my scars. King Diomedes is my friend and lover, not my minion.’

He paused, as much at ease with words as Ajax was ill at ease. ‘I’ve laid claim to the armour for one reason only – because I want to see it disposed of as Achilles himself wished.

‘If I cannot wear it, can Ajax? If it’s too large for me, it’s certainly too small for him. Give it to me. I deserve it.’

He threw his arms wide as if to say that there was no contest at all, then returned to his chair. Many wavered now, but that couldn’t matter. Agamemnon would decide.

The High King looked at Nestor. ‘What do you think?’

Nestor sighed. ‘That Odysseus deserves the armour.’

‘Then so be it. Odysseus, take your prize.’

Ajax screamed. His sword was out, but whatever he intended to do with it was not done. Even as he sprang out of his chair, he pitched full length on the ground and lay there. Nothing we did could rouse him. In the end Agamemnon ordered a stretcher brought, and eight soldiers bore him away. Odysseus put the armour in a hand cart while the Kings dispersed, saddened and dispirited. I went looking for wine to take the sourness out of my mouth. By the time that Odysseus had finished speaking we had known what he intended to do with his prize – give it to Neoptolemos. Maybe in Troy that would have been possible as a direct gift, but armour belonging to a dead man in our part of the world was either buried with him or put up as a prize at his funeral games. A pity. Yes, as things turned out, a great pity.

Night had long fallen when I gave up trying to get drunk. I walked the deserted streets between the tall houses seeking a light, any place which might offer me comfort. And there it was at last, a flame! Burning inside Odysseus’s house. The curtain was still drawn back from the doorway, so I staggered in.

He was sitting with Diomedes, sitting watching the dying embers of a fire and brooding. His arm was thrown about the Argive, his fingers slowly caressing the Argive’s bare shoulder. An outsider looking at their solidarity, a masterless dog, I knew a fresh surge of loneliness. Achilles was dead. I led the Myrmidons, I who had not been born to that command. Terrifying. I came into the circle of light and sat down wearily.

‘Do I intrude?’ I asked then, a little tardily.

Odysseus smiled. ‘No. Have some wine.’

My stomach turned over. ‘No, thank you. I’ve been trying to get drunk all night without success.’

‘So alone, Automedon?’ Diomedes asked.

‘More alone than I ever wanted to be. How can I take his place? I’m not Achilles!’

‘Rest easy,’ Odysseus whispered. ‘I sent for Neoptolemos ten days ago, when I saw the shadow of death darken his face. If the winds and Gods are kind, Neoptolemos should be here soon.’

The relief was so enormous I almost kissed him. ‘Odysseus, for that I thank you with all my heart! The Myrmidons must be led by the blood of Peleus.’

‘Don’t thank me for doing the sensible thing.’

We sat talking desultorily while the night passed away, each drawing comfort from the others. Once I fancied I heard a commotion in the distance, but when it died down quickly I turned my attention back to what Diomedes was saying. Then came a great shout; this time all three of us heard. Diomedes got up, pantherish, reaching for his sword, while Odysseus sat uncertainly, his head cocked. The noise grew; we went outside and moved in its direction.

It drew us down towards Skamander and finally to its bank, where we kept a pen of consecrated animals for the altars, each one individually chosen, blessed, and marked with a sacred symbol. Some of the other Kings were ahead of us, and a guard had already been posted to keep the merely curious away. Of course we were let through immediately, and joined Agamemnon and Menelaos as they stood by the fence around the pen peering at some object looming in the darkness. We listened to insane laughter, to a gibbering voice rising higher and higher, shouting names up at the stars, shrieking its rage and derision.

‘Take that, Odysseus, you spawn of thieves! Die, Menelaos, you crawling sycophant!’

On and on it went while we probed the night fruitlessly. Then someone handed a torch to Agamemnon, who raised it above his head and sent its light out in a widening pool. I gasped in horror. The wine and the empty belly I hadn’t wanted to fill revolted; I turned aside and spewed. As far as the light of the torch could reach was blood. Sheep and cattle and goats lay in lakes of it, their eyes glazed and fixed, their limbs lopped off, their throats cut, their hides showing sometimes dozens of wounds. In the background Ajax capered with a bloody sword in his hand. His mouth was open in that chilling laughter when it was not screaming abuse. A terrified little calf dangled from his hand, beating its hooves against his unyielding bulk while he hacked at it. Each time he struck he called the calf Agamemnon, then went into another peal of laughter.

‘To see him come to this!’ Odysseus whispered.

I managed to control my heaving. ‘What is it?’ I gasped.

‘Madness, Automedon. The outcome of different things. Too many blows to the head over the years – too much grief – perhaps a stroke. But to come to this! I pray he never recovers enough to understand what he’s done.’

‘We have to stop him!’ I said.

‘By all means try, Automedon. I don’t have any ambition to tackle Ajax in a fit of madness.’

‘Nor I,’ said Agamemnon.

So all we did was stand and watch.

With the dawn his madness lifted. He came to his senses ankle deep in blood, stared about him like a man in a nightmare – at the dozens of consecrated animals surrounding him, at the blood which covered him from head to foot, at the sword in his hand, at the silent Kings watching from beyond the fence. He still held a goat in his hand, drained of life, hideously mutilated. With a shriek of horror he dropped it, understanding at last what he had done in the night. Then he ran to the fence and leaped it, flying away from the place as if the Furies pursued him already. Teukros broke away from us to follow him; we remained where we were, shaken to our marrow.