The Trojan War (7 page)

“Sister? That’s no sister,” muttered Ares as he left the throne-room. “That’s a harpy out of hell.”

Nevertheless, Zeus sent Apollo after Ares to make sure that his wound had been properly tended, and also sent lightfooted Iris to recall Athena from the battlefield. He then issued another edict against direct intervention by any god on one side or the other.

T
HE BATTLE HAD BEGUN
at dawn, and it was now the hot middle of the day. The sun hung in the sky like a brass helmet; dust hung in the air hot as metal filings. The exhausted men gasped like unwatered cattle. They could feel their flesh charring where the sun hit their armor. Many of them threw off their armor and fought naked. Shaft of spear and lance, and hilt of sword, were so slippery with sweat that they slid out of men’s hands. Without any orders being given the fighting subsided, and the armies drew off a little way from one another to await the cool of late afternoon.

During this lull Hector returned to Troy. He had two errands: First, to dig his brother Paris out of the boudoir and get him onto the battlefield; secondly, to visit his wife, Andromache.

Andromache was not at home. The servants told him she was waiting on the Scaeian Wall. He went there to find her. They embraced. She said: “You’re so hot and tired. Must you rush back to the battlefield? Can’t you stay with me awhile? Stay, only a little while, and let me make you comfortable again.”

“No, I must get back there, dearly as I should love to stay with you and pass some cool and delicious hours in your matchless company. But I am the commander, and must lead my men.”

“You look so solemn—so sad. Have you come to tell me something special?”

“I have had a vision of Troy’s defeat. And among all the scenes of carnage and disaster it drags in its wake, all I can see is one picture: You, in time to come, have been borne away by some mailed conqueror to faroff Greece. And there in Argos, or in Attica, or Sparta, I see you dressed in dull clothing, spinning at the loom, or drawing water under the eye of your mistress—who will not be partial to you for you will be too beautiful, more beautiful than she, whoever she be. And her husband, your master, will be spending his nights with you rather than with her. I see you a servant, a slave. That is what losing means—to be enslaved. And that sight of you there fills me with such sorrowful rage that I feel a giant’s strength, feel that I, personally, could interpose my body between Troy and all the Greek hordes—even if my comrades are cut down—and kill and kill until there is not one Greek left. And so the vision brings its own contradiction. And what do you make of that?”

“What do I make of that? That you are very brave, and very dear. And that I am blessed beyond all women in my husband. For you, I believe, are the mightiest man ever to bear arms, and the noblest heart ever to bear another’s grief. And when you meet Achilles, or Ajax, the gods will favor your cause, for you are living proof that their handiwork is excelling itself.”

“Thank you for those words,” said Hector. “They are the sweetest I have ever heard in all my life. It is true, whether I can conquer Achilles or not, I must challenge him to single combat. These pitched battles waste our forces too much, and we do not have as many men to spare as do the enemy. Yes, I shall fight the strong Achilles, and when I do the memory of your loving words will make a victor’s music in my ears.”

He took his infant son from the nurse’s arms. Lifting him high as if stretching him toward the heavens, he said: “Great Zeus, father of us all, hear a lesser father’s prayer. I am a warrior; some call me a hero, and, as you know, a degree of self-esteem attaches to that condition. Instead of sacrificing a bull to you then, let me sacrifice my self-esteem—which, I assure you, is as huge and hotblooded and rampaging as any bull. Let me ask you this: That when my son is grown and fights his battles, as all men must, and returns therefrom, that men will say of him only this. ‘He is a better man than his father was.’ ”

The baby was frightened by his father’s nodding horsetail plume, and burst into tears. Hector smiled and kissed him, and gave him into his mother’s arms. Then he kissed her, and said: “I must be off now, good wife. I must rout out lazy Paris and try to prevail upon him to do a bit of fighting in this war that he started. Farewell.”

But it took him a while to press through the mob. It seemed all Troy was out in the streets. Since he was their special hero, the people crowded about him, shouting questions, trying to touch him. He kept a smile on his face, but forced his way steadily through the mob. However, his son’s nurse had been so moved by his words on the wall that she had rushed off to tell everyone she could find what her master had said. By the time he reached Paris’ house all Troy was buzzing with his speech to Andromache, and no woman who heard it could refrain from bursting into tears, and thinking critically of her own husband.

He found Paris with Helen, polishing his armor.

“It’s clean enough, brother—too clean. I should prefer to see it bloodied a bit.”

“Ah, the old complaint,” murmured Paris.

“Yes, the old complaint. You do not fight enough in your behalf, Paris. You set a bad example to the troops, and create rancor among your brothers. The word has spread that you are a coward. I too have called you that in the heat of my displeasure, and yet I know that you are not. You are too proud for cowardice. What you are is irresponsible. You cannot bear the discipline of warfare. The compulsion, the iron urgency. You are like some magic child who can do anything, but views his own caprice as the basic law of the universe. Well, you must drop that. For the cruel necessity of war is upon us—a war prompted by your own desires. And you must play not only an honorable role, but a hero’s role. Zeus knows we need all the heroes we can muster.”

“You keep saying these things, Hector,” said Paris. “But I haven’t uttered one syllable of objection. Why do you think I’m polishing my armor. I never wear it to bed. A rumor, incidentally, that is whispered about you, big brother. No, I mean to go to battle; I just want to look nice when I’m there.”

“Dear brother Hector,” said Helen. “Honorable commander. I know you think little of me. I know you consider me a shameless woman who seduced your brother and plunged Troy into a dreadful war. Nevertheless, let me say this: I, too, am always after him to do his share of fighting. I am of warrior race too, you know. In fact, it is said that a very prominent belligerent, Zeus himself, is my father. I don’t know how much truth there is in it, but they say he wooed my mother in the shape of a swan, and that I was born from a swan’s egg—which accounts for my complexion.”

She smiled at Hector, and he could find no word of reproach to say to her. In the blaze of Helen’s smile no man could remain wrathful. Even iron Hector was not immune.

“And I heard what you said to Andromache,” said Helen. A single pearly tear trembled on her eyelash without falling. “I think it was the most beautiful thing any man has ever said to any wife. This scoundrel here could never in a million years find such sentiments on his tongue, and he is famous for sweet speech. Truly the thought of being enslaved is something that haunts every Trojan woman and devils every warrior.”

“Truly,” drawled Paris. “No man likes to think of his wife being enslaved by anyone but himself. Quite intolerable.”

“See … he jokes even at that,” cried Helen. “What is one to do with him?”

“Make a soldier of him,” growled Hector. “Come on, pretty-boy, enough talk—let’s fight.”

Paris knelt before Helen, took both her hands, turned them over, and kissed each palm. Then he closed her hands.

“Keep these until I come again.”

The sight of Hector and Paris emerging from the gate, fresh and shining, brought new heart to the Trojans, and they charged the Greek positions again. Led by Hector, Paris, and Aeneas, they wrought great havoc among the enemy, who lost some of their best warriors in that flurry.

Athena, despite Zeus’ edict, flew down from Olympus to help the Greeks. This time she was intercepted by Apollo, who said:

“No, sister, you must not. You are Zeus’ favorite daughter, as everyone knows, and you should be the last to flout his commands. You see that I am keeping aloof from the battle, and so must you.”

“I can’t,” cried Athena. “I won’t! Too many Greeks are being killed.”

“Come away. Listen to me. I have a plan to end this slaughter—without any direct intercession on our part.”

Athena joined Apollo under a huge oak tree.

“Owl-goddess,” he said. “We can stop this killing by arranging that the battle be settled through single combat. This was attempted earlier in the day when Paris challenged Menelaus, but Paris fled, and the idea came to nought. Now, however, we shall have great Hector issue the challenge, and you may be sure that he will fight to the finish.”

“I agree,” said Athena. “Let us send Hector the idea.”

Gods send ideas to men in different ways. But whatever way they choose it is necessary to create the illusion of personal authorship—that is, that each man believe the idea to be his own. The gods’ idea came to Hector as a dart of sunlight glancing off the tall helm of Ajax which towered above his companions. Seeing that high helmet gleam Hector said to Paris:

“Listen, brother, I have an idea.”

Paris was willing enough to stop fighting and listen. Aeneas drew close too. So did the other sons of Priam. And the fighting was eased again as the Trojans held a council on the field.

“We have fought valiantly this day,” said Hector. “And have prevented the Greeks from storming our walls, which was their intention this morning. So, in a sense, we have won the battle. In another sense we have not. Nor can we win any head-to-head battle with the Greeks. For if our losses be equal or anywhere near equal they will contribute toward our final defeat. The Greeks outnumber us, and we dare not match their losses, or even match half their losses, or by and by we shall find ourselves with no fighting men at all while they will have a force capable of taking the city. What I propose then is this: That I challenge one of their champions to single combat, and that the honors of the day rest upon the result. If I win I shall do this each day until either I shall have run through all their champions and so dishearten them that they must depart, or I myself am killed, leaving the decisions to someone else. Let me add that the absence of Achilles should be no little help to this project.”

His words met with general favor. He stepped in front of the Trojan lines, and addressed the Greeks.

“Honorable foemen,” he said, “you have fought long and well upon this day, and have killed many of us. We have fought no less honorably and have killed many of you. But the sun sinks now and we have supplied the vultures with food enough for this day. Let me be a surrogate for the Trojan deaths, and choose you a champion who will meet me and be a surrogate for your deaths. Upon our combat let rest the honors of the day. If I lose, the victor may strip me of my armor, nor will any of my brothers oppose him. All I ask is that my body be returned to my father, Priam, for decent burning. But if the gods favor me in this combat, then I will act in the same way toward my fallen foe. Come, then—let me hear! Who of you will fight me? I await your reply.”

His voice blared like a trumpet across the lines, leaving silence after it. The Greek champions looked at each other. No one, it seemed, was rushing to volunteer. Finally, Menelaus dragged himself to his feet, and said:

“Well, I won one duel today. Maybe this is my day for winning. If none of you offers to fight him, then I must.”

But Agamemnon pulled him back.

“No, brother, not you. In plain words, if you fight Hector, you will die. The man belongs with the greatest warriors of all time. Everyone acknowledges this. Even our own Achilles, for all his murderous pride, has never seen fit to engage Hector in single combat.”

“Someone must fight him!” cried Menelaus. “If not I, then someone else.”

“For shame!” cried old Nestor, rising and berating them in his dry voice like an angry cricket. “For shame … How the generations have shrunk! There were mighty men in my day. How they would laugh and scoff to see you sitting here like a circle of schoolboys awaiting the master’s rod! Come … if there is no one to volunteer then we must draw lots and let the gods choose.”

He took chips of wood and inscribed the names of the Greek champions—nine of them—the two Ajaxes, Teucer, Idomeneus, Diomedes, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Nestor’s own son, Antilochus, a very skillful charioteer. He shook the chips in his helmet, then selected one, read the name inscribed in a piercing voice.

“Ajax,” he said. “Ajax of Salamis. Known as the Great Ajax.”

To Hector, Ajax looked as big as Ares prowling out of the Greek lines. The westering sun cast his gigantic shadow back over the massed Greeks and, beyond them, over the beaked ships drawn up on the strand. His shield looked enormous as a chariot wheel. It was made of nine bullhides bound in brass. And he was using Ares’ own spear, twenty-feet long, its shaft made of a single ash-tree, which he had picked up after the god of war had dropped it upon being wounded by Diomedes. Ajax was the only mortal large enough to wield this spear.

Hector did not wish to give Ajax a chance to hurl that huge spear, so he cast his own javelin first. It sped through the air and hit Ajax’s spear, shattering its brass boss and penetrating all but the last bullhide. Ajax shivered like a tree under the blow of a woodman’s axe, but he steadied himself, drew back his knotted arm and hurled Ares’ spear. Now Hector was using a smaller shield—also made of bullhide bound in brass. He preferred a shield he could move about to cover himself rather than one to hide behind, because he depended more on speed and agility than size. When he saw the ash-tree lance hurtling through the air toward him he lifted his shield, which was immediately shattered by the spear. His left arm fell to his side, numb. But he swerved his body, avoiding the spearhead, and suffered only a scratch on his shoulder. But that cut spurted blood, and the Trojans groaned.