The Trojan War (6 page)

Honorable Hector, Trojans, all—I declare my brother Menelaus, King of Sparta, the victor in the single combat we agreed was to decide the war. To this you must submit since your champion Paris has vanished and Menelaus holds the field. Therefore, Helen must be returned to us, and the entire cost of our expedition must be paid by you, plus a huge and fitting indemnity.”

The Greeks shouted with joy. The Trojan lines were wrapped in bitter silence.

Helen had been watching on the wall, with Priam and the other elders of Troy. When she heard Agamemnon’s declaration she hurried back to the palace to change her dress, perfume herself, and prepare to be retaken. She was amazed to find Paris in her room.

“What are you doing here?”

“Sleeping … waiting …”

“For what?”

“For you, dear. What else?”

“I was watching from the wall. The last I saw of you, you were fighting Menelaus, more or less. Did you run away, darling?”

“More or less. Not exactly.”

“You didn’t exactly stay either.”

“Rough character, that exhusband of yours. No one stays around him very long …”

“What now, sweet coward?”

“Come here.”

“But I’m about to be reclaimed. Agamemnon has declared the Greeks victorious.”

“Agamemnon is hasty, my dear. The gods are just beginning to enjoy this war. They’re not going to let it end so quickly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Believe me, the real war is just beginning. And we battle-weary warriors need frequent interludes of tender repose. So come here.”

Hera and Athena were now perched on the same peak whispering to each other; they did not like the way things were going down below. Zeus called out teasingly:

“Well, my dears, your gentle impulses should be gratified, for it looks very much like peace will be concluded between Greece and Troy, and many brave men spared who would otherwise have died.”

“You are hasty, sire,” said Hera sweetly. “No peace treaty has been signed, only an armistice. And with two armies full of such spirited warriors, anything may happen to break a truce. Of course, we hope nothing does, but—after all—it has been foretold that Troy will fall.”

Zeus frowned, and did not answer. He knew better than to try to match gibes with Hera. In the meantime the ox-eyed queen of the gods was whispering to Athena:

“We must do something immediately, or peace will break out. Get down there and see what you can do about ending this stupid truce.”

Athena flew down and whispered to a Trojan leader named Pandarus. “The man who sends an arrow through one of those famed Greek warriors will live in the annals of warfare for the next three thousand years—longer perhaps. Just imagine putting a shaft through Ulysses, or Agamemnon, or Achilles. No, he’s not fighting today, is he? Or Menelaus. Look, there Menelaus stands, still searching for Paris. He’s within very easy bowshot. What are you waiting for, man? If I were an archer like you I wouldn’t hesitate for a second.”

Pandarus swallowed this flattery in one gulp, as Athena knew he would. Now, Pandarus was a fine archer, although not as good as he thought he was, and he owned a marvellous bow made of two polished antelope horns seized together by copper bands, and strung with ox sinew. Inflamed by Athena’s words, he snatched an arrow from his quiver, fitted it to his bowstring, bent his horn-bow, and let fly. The arrow sang through the air and would have finished off Menelaus right then and there had not Athena, making herself invisible, flashed across the space and deflected the arrow so that it struck through the Spartan king’s buckle and, still further deflected, passed through the bottom part of his breastplate, just scratching his side. The wound looked more serious than it was because the arrow stuck out the other side of his breastplate as if it had passed through his body. Menelaus staggered and fell to his knees; blood flowed down his thighs. The Greek army gasped with horror, and the Trojans groaned too, for they knew this must break the truce. Agamemnon uttered a mighty grief-stricken shout:

“Traitors! You have killed my brother! You have broken the truce! Greeks—to arms! Kill the traitors! Charge!”

The dust was churned again as the whole Greek army, moving as one man, snatched up its weapons and rushed toward the Trojan lines.

All this time, while the battle was raging back and forth, Achilles kept to his tent and did not come out. He lay on his pallet trying to shut his ears to the sound of battle. But he could not. He heard it all—war-cry and answer, challenge and reply. Spear-shock and the crash of shields; the rattle of sword against helmet, the ping of dart against breastplate. Arrows sang through the air. Men shrieked and groaned; horses neighed and bugled. This sound had always been music to him—the best sound in all the world—but now it was a simple torment. For there to be a battle going on and Achilles not in it was a thing absolutely against nature. Great sobs wrenched Achilles. But Patroclus was in the tent too, waiting with him, and he did not wish his friend to hear his grief.

So Achilles bit down on his wrist till it bled, stifling his sobs that way. At last he could bear it no longer, but arose from his bed and washed his face in the cold water that stood in a golden ewer, one he had taken in some half-forgotten raid. Oh, happy days they seemed now, before his quarrel with Agamemnon, when he could allow himself to roam the seas raiding the home-islands of Trojan allies, raging into their very fastnesses, spearing men like fish, and sacking the proud castles of their treasures—and taking many slaves.

He stood now at the portal of his tent watching the battle. He saw Diomedes sweeping up and down, and it was like some memory of himself. He groaned aloud. Patroclus came to him and put his arm around his neck.

“Old friend,” said Patroclus, “beloved comrade—I cannot see you kill yourself with grief. Forget your feud with Agamemnon. Go fight! Arm yourself and join the battle. Else regret will tear your breast more surely than enemy spear.”

“I cannot bury my feud with Agamemnon,” cried Achilles. “False friend! How can you tell me to do that? He insulted me, took Briseis. Do you think I will allow any man, though he be king a dozen times, to do such things to me? No! I would rather fight with the Trojans against the Greeks.”

“A traitor to your own kind? No, you would never be that,” said Patroclus.

“I’m a traitor to my own nature if I do not fight. And that’s worse.”

“You could never bring yourself to fight your old companions. How could you level your spear against either of the Ajaxes, or Ulysses, or Idomeneus? I do not even mention myself.”

Achilles took his friend’s head between his hands and looked deep into his eyes.

“Oh, Patroclus,” he said. “You would be surprised to know the names of those I could bring myself to fight when the battle-fury burns. I like them well—Ajax, and Diomedes, Ulysses, Idomeneus, even that crude bear, Menelaus. I have adventured with them, and raided with them, and fought the Trojans with them. I should regret killing them, perhaps, but I could manage the deed in the heat of battle. Only you, my friend, have a true hold on my esteem. You I will never harm. You I will always avenge should anyone else offer you harm. I feel myself being torn in two. I feel a fire inside my head that is scorching my very capacity to think. I feel a pain in my gut that is worse than any weapon that has pierced my armor. I don’t know what will happen to me in the days to come, but take this pledge: You are my friend, my true friend, sweet cousin and companion of my boyhood; I shall never harm you, and shall take vengeance upon anyone who does.”

He shoved Patroclus away. “Go now. I know you do not wish me to stand alone, but I pray you, go. For I do not wish you to see my grief.”

“I go,” said Patroclus. “But I shall not join the battle either until you give me leave.”

He walked off, but not far. He circled in back of the tent and stood there watching Achilles. For his heart was sodden with love for the mighty youth, and he was as loyal as a dog.

Hera and Athena watched, frowning, from their peak on Olympus as the Trojans beat back the Greeks.

“What ails you, stepdaughter?” said Hera. “You seem to be losing your touch. The strength you gave Diomedes appears to have ebbed, and with it the tide of Greek fortunes. Look at them; they’re running like rabbits.”

“It is because my brothers have broken their vow of neutrality,” said Athena angrily. “Apollo has completely restored Aeneas who was felled by Diomedes in a glorious action, and the son of Anchises wields his weapon more powerfully than ever before. And Hector has suddenly become inspired, and is raging like a wolf on the field. But it is no accident. Behind him I see the form of Ares goading the Trojans to superhuman effort.”

“Yes, Ares is chiefly to blame,” said Hera. “Although I am his mother, I must confess he is an incorrigible mischiefmaker. Apollo will mend wounds and issue edicts, but he is too proud to fight with mortals. Ares, however, exults in battle, no matter whom he is fighting. And it is he who harries the Trojans forward. Yes, it is Ares who must be driven from the field. And it is you who must do it, stepdaughter. For Zeus would never forgive me if I took up arms against my own son. He is quite hidebound in some respects.”

“Very well,” said Athena. “Then I shall do it. For many a century now I have been wanting to settle scores with that lout.”

So saying, she sped to earth and, keeping herself invisible, joined the Greeks where they had set up a defense line near their ships. The Trojans were driving ahead viciously, but the toughest Greek warriors—Ajax the Greater, Ajax the Lesser, Teucer, Ulysses, Idomeneus, Agamemnon, Menelaus—all these ferocious fighters formed knots of resistance to the Trojans, who had breached the Greek line in many places, and were advancing upon the beached ships.

Athena spoke to Diomedes, appearing before him in her own guise, but keeping herself invisible to the others.

“Son of Tydeus,” she said. “You are a great sorrow and disappointment to me. After a few hours of fighting you grow weary. You fail. You leave the field to Hector and Aeneas. It’s incredible. Standing there on Olympus I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. I did not know how to answer to mother Hera who chided, and justly, for choosing so weak a vessel to hold the beautiful rage of the gods. I am grieved, Diomedes. I am shocked and dismayed.”

By this time Diomedes’ face was wet with tears. He tore out his beard in great handfuls.

“Another word of reproof, O Athena,” he shouted, “and I shall plunge this blade into my breast. And you shall have to find another to crush with your scorn. Why do you blame me for that which is not my fault. You saw me overcoming every Trojan I met, even Pandarus, the shrewd archer, even the mighty Aeneas. Why, I even wounded his mother, Aphrodite! And how many men have dappled with ichor the radiant flesh of the goddess of love? But in the midst of these deeds I was stopped by your brother, Apollo, the sun-god himself, who warned me that I must never lift my hand against an Olympian again, threatening me with eternal torment if I disobeyed. So what am I to do? For it is your other brother, Ares, who ranges behind the Trojan lines, filling Aeneas and Hector with battle-rage, and making them invincible. Unless I lift my spear against Ares and chase him from the field he will never allow me to measure my strength with Hector and Aeneas.”

“You speak truly,” said Athena. “But Apollo cannot stop
me
from fighting Ares. I have the permission of mother Hera. As for Zeus, he detests his brawling son. Many a time, in aeons gone, he was moved to punish Ares himself. And although father Zeus tends to favor the Trojans I know he will not chide me overmuch if I chastise Ares. Let us go then. You will lift your spear against him, but I will ride as your charioteer and guide your spear. And I will be your buckler too when the god of war aims his gigantic lance at your breastplate. Come, brave Diomedes, we will teach the Trojans that the Greeks must prevail even though great Achilles disdains to take the field. Yes, I will be your charioteer, and guide these marvellous horses you have taken from Aeneas, and you shall be able to devote your full time to fighting.”

So saying, Athena sprang into the chariot and took up the reins. Diomedes stood beside her couching his spear and shouting his war cry. Athena drove directly toward Ares, where he was snorting like a wild boar over a pile of dead Greeks, and despoiling them of their armor. He wished to take back to Olympus the gear of twenty men of large stature to give to Hephaestus, who would then melt the metal down and forge a breastplate and pair of greaves large enough for Ares. But when he saw the chariot approach, the somber pits of his eyes glowed with a new greed; he wanted those horses for himself. Also he wished very much to square accounts with Diomedes, who had been so terrible against the Trojans that day. He picked up his twenty-foot spear, the shaft of which was an entire ash tree, and rushed toward the chariot. It was a charge such as could batter down a city gate, but Athena reached out her mailed hand and deflected the spearhead so that it whizzed harmlessly past Diomedes, carrying Ares within easy sword-reach. Diomedes’ quick counterstroke half-gutted Ares. He fell with a horrid screech clutching his stomach. Had he been a mortal man the wound would have been fatal. As it was, he had to quit the field and fly back to Olympus. He visited Hephaestus first, who tucked his mighty guts in place, and sewed up the wound with bullhide sinew.

Then Ares stormed into Zeus’ throne-room, crying: “Justice! Justice! That harpy daughter of yours, that owl-hag Athena rides invisible as Diomedes’ charioteer, guarding him from all harm, and strengthening his hands so that he kills, kills, kills.”

“Fancy that,” said Zeus. “I had no idea that killing was so distasteful to you. These scruples seem to have developed overnight.”

“You do not understand, O Zeus. It is not only mortals he attacks. Earlier today he wounded Aphrodite. Just now he bloodied me with a lucky thrust. Me! Your son! God of Battle!”

“Who are you to complain?” shouted Zeus. “She should not be taking a direct hand in the fighting, it is true, for I have forbidden it. But you were doing the very same thing on the Trojan side. I saw you. You were disguised as Acamas, and with your own weapons were killing Greeks and despoiling them of their armor. You are equally to blame, and if I punish one I shall punish both. Besides … I think the God of war should be ashamed to publicize his defeat at the hands of his sister.”