The Trojan War (4 page)

“Oh, my brave son,” she cried. “Why these tears? Tell your mother so that she may share your grief.”

“Welcome, gentle mother,” said Achilles. “Thank you for coming when I call. I suffer thus because Agamemnon, the High King, has offered me ignoble insult. Denied by the gods of his own slave girl, he has taken my beautiful Briseis, into his tent. And I am forbidden by Athena to draw my sword from its sheath, but must stand helplessly by and watch myself despoiled.”

“Ever-meddlesome Athena!” cried Thetis. “Powerful you are, but I have powers too.”

“Yes, mother, the owl-goddess has forbidden me vengeance. I must stand here choking back my wrath and, oh, mother, it is too bitter to swallow.”

“What would you have me do, my son? How can I help you?”

“You must intercede with father Zeus whose edict overbears Athena’s, and all the gods’. Speak winningly to him, mother, as you alone can do. Warm his interest in my behalf. Let him nod toward Troy, infusing courage into the Trojan hearts, and strength into the Trojan arms. Let haughty Agamemnon find himself penned on the beaches while swift Hector and his brothers slaughter the Achaean forces. Then, then, will he rend his beard and weep for Achilles.”

“I shall do so,” said Thetis. “Swiftly will I travel to the Bronze Palace of the All-High, and beseech his intervention in your behalf. Those two mighty hags, Hera and Athena, keep close watch upon him, seeing that he does not intercede for Troy. But he still has some measure of regard for me, no doubt, and I still own some powers of persuasion, I am told. So rest easy, son. Wrap yourself in your cloak and taste sweet dreamless repose as your mother does your bidding. And gladly will she do it. For, in truth, you are the loveliest, strongest son that any mother, mortal or goddess, was blessed with.”

She disappeared into the sea. Achilles lay down and went to sleep and did not dream.

Upon that same night Cressida was returned to her father.

Now, like a great white sea-bird, silver-footed Thetis flew to the Bronze Palace of Zeus, high on Mt. Olympus. She found him seated on a throne of black rock in his garden looking down upon the earth. He smiled when he saw her for she had long been a favorite of his. Then, remembering that Hera might be watching, his smile quickly changed to a frown. But Thetis had felt the first warmth of his smile, a warmth that melted snow out of season in the mountains of far-off Thessaly, and started an avalanche. She sank down beside him among the flowers that grew at his feet and hugged his legs, and spoke to him. As she spoke she raised her long arm and stroked his beard and touched his face.

“Father Zeus,” she said, “I, Thetis, daughter of the Sea, present warmest greetings to mighty Zeus, King of the Gods, ruler of sky, air, and mountain. If I mention my name, oh heavenly one, it is because I fear you might have forgotten me. It has been many long painful hours since we last met.”

“I have not forgotten you,” said Zeus in a thunderous whisper. It was this unfortunate inability of his to whisper softly that upset so many of his nocturnes by catching Hera’s sharp ears—even when he was conducting his session in some secret place upon some remote marg of beach or shelf of cliff.

“Thanks be for that,” said Thetis. “For I think of you constantly.”

“Constantly, my dear? But I understand you have many distractions.”

“Oh, yes. I am a goddess, and grief does not become me. But even among the most sportive of my diversions my dreams shuttle your image like a girl weaving who, no matter what gray or blue threads embroider the detail of her design, still casts the strong scarlet flax which becomes the themeline of her tapestry. Thus does memory of you, my king, run its scarlet thread through the shuttling and weaving of my dreams.”

“Sweet words, Thetis, which your voice makes even sweeter. What favor do you seek?”

“All-knowing Zeus, you have read my heart. Pleasure and longing alone would bring me to you. But now, as it happens, I do have a petition. Not for myself, but for my son, Achilles, the son of Peleus, my mortal husband, whom you will remember no doubt. And you will remember too that Achilles’ days are briefly numbered. It has been decreed by the Fates that he could choose between brilliant fighting and death at Troy or a long life of peace and obscurity far from battle-cry and clash of spear. He chose Troy and death, of course. But since his days are to be so brief I do not wish them clouded by suffering. And Agamemnon makes him suffer brutal injustice.”

“I do not understand,” said Zeus. “Why does he not kill Agamemnon? Your son is no man to allow himself to be insulted.”

“Aye, his sword had leaped halfway from its scabbard when your daughter, Athena, intervened, bidding him swallow his wrath and allow Agamemnon to work his horrid will. He has obeyed her, because she is your daughter and her strength derives from yours, as does that of all the gods. But he wishes to pay out Agamemnon all the same.”

“What can I do at this juncture?” said Zeus.

“Inspire the Trojans to attack. Fire their hearts and strengthen their arms so that they are triumphant—so that Agamemnon must beg my son’s pardon, or face defeat. For as you know Achilles is the very buckler of the Greek forces; without him, they must surely lose.”

The frown on Zeus’s face was darkening. Sable night itself seemed to flow from his beard and hair. Darkness thickened upon earth. Men groaned in their sleep, and the birds stopped singing.

“If I grant your favor, O Thetis, it means endless trouble for me. Night and day will Queen Hera rail and nag, haunt my pleasures and devil my repose. For she heavily favors the Greeks. And, knowing that I disagree, she has made me promise neutrality at least. But always she accuses me of secret partiality for the Trojans … which is true, of course. Now, if I do this thing for you, her opinion stands confirmed, and she will reveal her aptitude as arch-crone of the Universe.”

“Please,” said Thetis.

“I cannot refuse you,” said Zeus. “But now return to the sea quickly lest she spot us talking here, and her suspicions be prematurely aroused. One kiss, my salty minx, and then off you go.”

“Here’s a kiss with all my heart … And you do promise?”

“I do,” said Zeus. “We shall have another conversation, perhaps, after the Greeks lose their battle.”

“Gladly … Do not keep me waiting too long, dear Zeus.”

Thetis left Olympus, and sank to the depths of the sea. Zeus went into the banqueting hall of his Bronze Palace where the gods were gathered. But Hera was not disposed to let him eat the evening meal in peace.

“King of Deceivers!” she cried. “You have been with Thetis. And she has been asking you for favors. To help the Trojans, no doubt, because her bumptious brawling son has cooked up a grievance against the great Agamemnon.”

“Good sister and wife,” said Zeus. “Hera of the Golden Throne—please shut your nagging mouth, and keep it shut, before I plant my fist in it.”

“Abuse me! Beat me! You have the power, and can do it. But you have not the power to make me stop telling you what you should hear. I know that deep-sea witch has been flattering you, getting you to promise this and that. She’s capable of anything, that one. Do you know how she spends her time? She hides behind reefs to capsize ships, so that she can swim off with her arms full of sailors—whom she keeps in a deep grotto. Then when they’re old and feeble she feeds them to the sharks, and makes necklaces out of their fingerbones. She probably tells you that she spends her time doing kind deeds, and pining away for one more glimpse of your august visage. And you, you with all your tremendous wisdom, your insight into men’s souls, you swallow this flattery like a green schoolboy, and promise her to do mischief to my Greeks.”

Zeus said no word, but frowned so heavily that the stone floor began to crack. His fingers tightened around his scepter, a radiant volt-blue zigzag shaft of lighting. For he was also known as the Thunderer, Lord of Lightning—and, when angered, he would fling that deadly bolt the way a warrior hurls his lance.

Hephaestus, the smith-god, lame son of Zeus and Hera, who in his volcanic smithy had forged these lightning bolts and knew their awful power, ran to his mother in fear, whispering:

“Mother, mother, say something pleasant. Smile! Stop nagging! Or you’ll get us all killed.”

“Never,” hissed Hera. “Let him flail about with his lightning bolt, let the brute do what he wishes. I shall never stop railing and howling until he disowns Thetis and her plots.”

“Nay, mother, you forget. He has reason to favor Thetis of the Silver Feet, whatever her habits. Do not forget her ancient loyalty to him. When you and Athena and Poseidon plotted against him and tried to depose him from his throne—taking him by surprise, and binding him with a hundred knots—was it not she who called the hundred-handed Briareus, his titanic gardener? Briareus rescued his master, each of his hundred hands untying a knot. Do you not remember? It was upon that terrible night too that he showed what his wrath could be—punishing us all, particularly you, chaining you upside down in the vault of heaven until your screams cracked the crystal goblets of the stars.”

“I remember,” muttered Hera hoarsely. “I remember.”

“Then appease him, mother. Say something gentle, quickly. For his wrath is brewing. I see it plain. And terrible will be the consequences.”

Hera arose then, and said: “Mighty Zeus, Lord of us all, I beg your pardon for causing you disquiet. It is only my concern for your peace of mind that sometimes leads me to hasty words. For I know how strong your honor is, how you value your word, and how you would hate to do anything to breach the promise of neutrality that you have given to me and Athena. So forgive my undue zeal in fearing that the tricks of Thetis would seduce you from your vow. Forgive me now, dear Lord, and I say not another word no matter what your intentions in the war below.”

“Seat yourselves, all,” boomed Zeus. “Drink your mead. We shall quarrel no more upon this night—for it is the shortest of all the year, and filled with the perfumes of earth.”

Z
EUS SENT A MISLEADING
dream to Agamemnon. The dream masqueraded as Nestor who came to the king’s tent at dawn, and said:

“Awake! Awake! This is no time to be sleeping. Hera has persuaded Zeus to permit the fall of Troy. So you must move immediately to the attack. Awake! Rouse yourself from slumber, and advance upon Troy. For gods grow wroth when men waste their favor.”

Agamemnon arose immediately and called together his council. He related his dream. Nestor climbed to his feet, blushing with pride; it pleased him to appear in a dream sent by Zeus.

“It is a true auspice, O King, and must be obeyed. You know me well enough to realize I would never allow myself to appear in any dream that was not of the utmost authenticity.”

Agamemnon said: “Nine years we have fought. We have killed Trojans, but Troy still stands. We have looted her colonies, sacked the cities of her allies, but Troy herself still abides, fair and impregnable as the virgin goddess, Artemis—who, indeed, favors the Trojan cause.

“After nine years our men are disheartened. Many of our finest have fallen to deadly Hector and his brothers, many others to Apollo’s plague arrows. Now, I fear, too many of those left are on the point of mutiny or desertion. I have led men a long time; I know the signs.

“It is at this juncture that Zeus sees fit to promise me Troy. This means—and I interpret these matters not like an oracle but like a soldier—that he gives it to me if I can take it.”

“Exactly,” said Ulysses. “Therefore, let us take it.”

“Yes, brave Ulysses. But consider this: If our men desert us in the midst of a general assault when we have committed our reserves to a headlong attack—then, indeed, we shall meet disaster.”

“We must see that they do not desert,” said Diomedes.

“Precisely what I propose,” said Agamemnon. “What I mean to do is weed out the cowards and traitors beforehand. I shall call the men together, and address them in discouraging terms, indicating that I am ready to abandon the war and sail back to Greece.”

“Dangerous, very dangerous,” said Ulysses. “They will welcome your words and stampede to the boats.”

“And that will weed out the cowards and traitors.”

“You may be weeding out the entire army—saving those present, of course. Your test is ill-timed, O Agamemnon. The men are war-weary, and legitimately so. The plague proves that. Despite the venom of Apollo’s arrows, a man in good spirits is bucklered against disease. But a sick body means a sick soul. And they are battle-worn; they long for home. Your speech will send them scurrying off to the ships.”

“Then what would you have me do?” cried Agamemnon. “If things are that bad we may as well fold our tents, raise our sails, and skulk away for home.”

“No,” said Ulysses. “The important thing is to ignore the men’s weariness, and show them a glad and confident face. Address the troops. Speak no discouraging word, but tell them your dream and order them to attack. Twenty years of warfare have taught me that the cure for fear is fighting.”

“Too many words,” growled huge Ajax. “Let’s stop talking and start cracking some heads. If we crack enough outside of Troy we’ll soon be doing it inside.”

But Agamemnon would not be dissuaded. Like all men of few ideas he clung bitterly to one when it occurred. And by now he had convinced himself that his notion was a brilliant one.

“I shall make the speech I planned,” he said. “And depend upon you, kings and chieftains of my War Council, to keep the men from breaking.”

Agamemnon issued orders. Nine heralds went throughout the camp blowing their silver trumpets, calling the men together. They came in a mighty swarm. Even after its losses this army remained the greatest fighting force ever assembled in ancient times.

Agamemnon stood on a rock and raised his golden scepter. He had planned his speech for hours, but was able to utter only one sentence.

“Friends—my heart has been overwhelmed by our losses, and I have decided it is time to quit this war and sail for Greece.”

No sooner had he said these words, than, as Ulysses had foretold, the vast crowd stampeded. With a wild moaning cry the men leaped to their feet and stormed toward the beach. Had the restless gods not been vigilant the Greek cause would have died that day.