The Trojan War (9 page)

“Why flog a horse that is breaking his wind galloping for you?” said Teucer. “I cannot shoot any faster.”

“Certainly you can. You want an inducement. Listen … I promise you this. As high king and commander of the forces I pledge that when finally we take and sack Troy you shall have the woman you choose for your very own, no matter how many princes contend for her, and may take your choice from among all the daughters of Priam, and the other beautiful maidens of the court.”

“Thank you for nothing,” said Teucer. “When we take Troy I’ll do my own choosing. Now please, king, break off this discourse, and let me continue to send my bolts into the ranks of the enemy. As we stand here talking they’re regrouping. If we linger like this the only thing we’ll be taking is a ferry across the Styx.”

And, sure enough, by the time he had notched another arrow to his bowstring, Hector had approached close enough to hurl a boulder that caught Teucer square, toppling him, and crushing his collarbone. That would have been the end of the superb little archer except that Diomedes scooped him up into his chariot and galloped with him to safety behind the Greek lines.

This was a turning point again. Zeus felt that he had responded sufficiently to Agamemnon’s prayer, and withdrew his favor.

The Trojans crossed the fosse again and forced the Greeks step by step back toward their ships.

Hera, watching on high, was again seized by a savage dissatisfaction, with that imperious burning displeasure that was a hallmark of her character.

“Come, Athena!” she cried. “We must go help the Greeks!”

“No, father Zeus has forbidden it,” said Athena.

“My conduct is defined by my neglect of his decrees,” said Hera. “Am I a wife for nothing? Forbid it or not, we must go down there or the Greeks are doomed. And after all our efforts! It’s intolerable!”

“Be patient but a little while, stepmother,” said Athena. “I know that Zeus in the larger measure of things means to abide by his oath of neutrality. He, too, as much as any of us is bound by the anciently woven destiny of the Fates, who are older than the gods, and less changeable. He knows that Troy must fall.”

“It will never fall while Trojans are killing Greeks,” said Hera.

“Patience, mother. Zeus is but keeping the promise he made to Thetis, the silver-footed, that Greek fortunes would ebb until Agamemnon should be humbled and have to come to Achilles’ tent to plead with him to drop his grudge and enter the lists again. When that happens—and the time is drawing near—then Zeus will resume his impartiality and let the Fates work.”

“I can’t wait that long,” said Hera. “Or there will be nothing left down there but Trojans. If you don’t join me, I’m going alone.”

But Hera had no sooner climbed into her chariot than Zeus made his power felt. Before she had a chance to whip up her horses, swift-winged Iris, the messenger-goddess, flashed across the sky from Mt. Ida where she had been sitting at Zeus’ feet awaiting errands.

“Father Zeus is watching you,” she said. “He is listening. He sees and hears across great distances. He knows your intentions. And he instructs me to say that if the wheels of your chariot leave this peak you will be transfixed by a thunderbolt—which even now he holds poised, ready to hurl.”

Hera threw down her reins and pulled herself from the coach, weeping.

Athena tried to comfort her.

“Take heart, mother,” she said. “Night is falling, and the fighting must stop. Perhaps in the watches of the night, father Zeus will relent, and tomorrow turn his favor to the Greeks. Or, perhaps, allow
us
to aid them, if he will not. He is changeable, you know. His moods are brief as they are violent.”

Hera, still sobbing, allowed herself to be led into her chamber.

S
ENTRIES WATCHING FROM THE
walls of Troy were comforted by the sight of a hundred fires burning on the beach. Trojan fires. This meant that the Trojans had penned the Greeks onto a narrow marge between forest and ocean. Hector ranged among the fires exhorting his men.

“Tomorrow!” he cried. “Tomorrow is our day! I feel it in my heart. Tomorrow we will finish what we have begun so well today. We will force them back, back, back upon their ships and slay them every one. We will teach haughty invaders never again to dare the beaches of Troy.”

On the Greek side, the scene was much different. Dismay hung like a pall, and no watchfires gleamed. But a solemn conclave was going on in Agamemnon’s tent.

“Kings and princes,” he said. “Members of the Council … I pray your forgiveness. As commander, I must take supreme responsibility for our defeat. And now I ask for your advice. Do you think we should try to save what we can … that is, launch our ships under cover of night—this night I mean—and sail for home? Tomorrow, remember, the enemy may cross the ditch and burn our ships, cutting off our retreat. That is the question we must resolve here and now. Do we depart tonight or gird ourselves for tomorrow, knowing that this morrow may be our last among the living?”

Diomedes spoke briefly: “The rest of you can leave, everyone, but I stay. I and my charioteer, Sthelenus. If all the rest of you go, together we will mount the chariot and drive Aeneas’ wonderful horses against the Trojans, killing as many as we can, before we are killed in our turn. If you want my real recommendation, Agamemnon, it would be for us to burn the ships ourselves tonight, cutting off our own retreat, and giving every doubter among us the great gift of no alternative. Better to be cut down here like men than to skulk home, defeated, dishonored, disgraced.”

“Diomedes, you are a very young man,” said Nestor, “but you speak like a sage. Your words are golden, my boy. Golden. I cannot quite hold with you on burning our ships, but this much is sure, we must not sail home tonight. Of course, we must stay and fight. And, by the gods, if we face the enemy without dismay, we will win. For the Fates have foretold it. And their decree not even the gods may alter. But I have this to say: We must decide on a very important step tonight. By this I mean we must coax Achilles back into the fold. Agamemnon, the burden is yours. You must apologize to him and make amends, and I know how this will torment your proud spirit. But you have no choice, truly. You must take upon yourself that humiliation; must eat your arrogant words, return the slave girl you took from him, and give him rich compensation besides. Then, perhaps, we can persuade him to fight tomorrow. My Lord Agamemnon, this is absolutely necessary. Without Achilles we are just an army; with him we are an irresistible force.”

Agamemnon spoke: “Honorable Nestor, dear sage, adept councillor, I speak no word in objection. I will humble my spirit and do everything necessary to persuade Achilles to join our ranks once again. I was wrong to quarrel with him, wrong to take the tall Briseis … wrong, wrong, wrong! I can ascribe my actions only to some hostile god addling my wits, and doing us more harm thereby than if he had supplied the Trojans with a company of slingers, a company of archers, and a cavalry troop. Now I have come to my senses again. Harsh defeat has restored my balance. I see how misguided I was—and this is what I propose to do for Achilles if he consents to stand beside us tomorrow. Hark now to my gifts of appeasement. First, cooking ware, rich enough to prepare a feast for the gods: seven bronze kettles, twenty huge pots of burnished copper, each of them big enough to boil an ox in. Ten gold ingots, each of them weighing almost a hundred pounds. Six teams of matched stallions that in a chariot race would press the sun-bred stallions of Aeneas. Seven girl slaves, the most beautiful of all those captured in nine years of island raiding, all of them contortionists, and very good at embroidery too. Lastly, I shall return to him tall Briseis—and with her my oath that she comes back into his hands untouched by me.

“Generous? Yes. But this is only the start, good sirs. When we return to Greece I shall bestow upon him other gifts, beyond the dream of avarice. I shall consider him my son, an elder brother to Orestes, with all the privileges appertaining to a prince royal in Mycenae. He will choose a wife from among my two beautiful daughters; her dowry will be seven cities, the richest in the land. I pray you, inform Achilles of my offer, and bring me his answer.”

“Very well,” said Nestor. “And on behalf of the War Council let me thank you for the remarkable generosity you now display. I have no doubt it will make Achilles forget the insults he suffered at your hands. I propose that the overtures be made to him by the men he respects most: Phoenix his old tutor, Ulysses, and Ajax. And I myself will accompany these three, for, in all modesty, he esteems me also.”

When the delegation came to the tent of Achilles they found a very peaceful scene. There was a driftwood fire burning, and the smell of roasting meat. Achilles was playing a silver-chased lyre and singing a boar-hunt song of Phthia. Patroclus lay back listening dreamily. Achilles sprang to his feet when he saw his guests. He embraced them, calling to Patroclus:

“See, my friend, how we are honored. Our companions, battle-weary, come to visit us. instead of refreshing themselves with sleep.”

“Oh, son of Peleus,” said Patroclus. “I believe you misread their intent. They come not to exchange amenities, nor pass the time; not even to indulge themselves in your warm hospitality. They come on business, grim business. Am I right, friends?”

“Your wits have always been as sharp as your sword, good Patroclus,” said Ulysses, “and, unlike your sword, have been given no chance to grow rusty. Yes, we come on business. Grim business. Survival is always a grim affair. And it is particularly grim when your enemies have you penned on a narrow stretch of beach threatening to slaughter you like cattle and burn your ships.”

“Business or not, grim or not,” boomed Achilles, “nevertheless we shall preserve the amenities. You have come on a visit to my tent, and it is my custom to feed visitors. Patroclus, will you do the honors of the table, sir?”

Patroclus served the savory roast meat and the rich purple wine. Greedily, the guests fell to. Agamemnon had neglected to feed them at the Council. When they had fed, Achilles said: “Now, sirs, say to me what you will. I am all attention.”

Then Ulysses, always the spokesman in any delegation, told Achilles how greatly Agamemnon desired to make amends, and the rich gifts he was offering.

Achilles answered, saying: “If anything could persuade me to drop my feud with Agamemnon and join battle against the Trojans, it would not be his bribes, but the feelings of comradeship, respect, and affection I have for you, great Ulysses—and you Ajax, you Nestor, and you, Phoenix, beloved friend and mentor. Nevertheless my answer must be no. I loathe and despise Agamemnon. In open meeting before all the troops, he insulted me repeatedly; spoke to me as if I were the seediest of camp-followers. He laid rude hands upon Briseis and dragged her away. So, my friends, when you report back to him, tell him to keep his cook-pots and his ingots and his talented slave girls and his seven cities in Mycenae. As for his kind offer to wed me to one of his daughters, I can say only this: I have not met either of the two young ladies. I hope for their own sakes they resemble their mother Clytemnestra, or their aunt Helen. Nevertheless, heredity is a quirky thing. Lineaments and traits of personality have been known to skip generations. Ask my lord Agamemnon if he thinks I would risk having a son or daughter with his pig face and verminous disposition. No, gentlemen. The answer is no. Tomorrow, at dawn, my Myrmidons and I board our ships and sail away to Phthia. Patroclus comes with me. And you, Phoenix, old teacher, do not stay and sacrifice yourself in this vain war, but come on board my ship and sail home with me.”

Phoenix could not speak; his voice was strangled with tears. He simply nodded to Achilles, and embraced Nestor and Ulysses and Ajax in farewell. They said not a word in protest, knowing it would be futile, but took courteous leave of Achilles, and left his tent.

I
T WAS AS THOUGH
the gods, heavy with business, had pressed the sky low that night between battles. The stars hung low, pulsing, each one big as a moon; the moon itself was a golden brooch pinning the folds of darkness that were night’s cloak. The gleaming watchfires on the field looked like star-images dancing in water; standing on the west wall it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the beach began. Under the immense jewelry of the summer night lay the corpses of the day’s fighting: bodies pierced and broken; smashed heads of beautiful young men; severed arms and legs. They bulked strangely now; they were heaped shadows. Pools of blood stank and glistened in the moonlight. Birds came down to drink. The night is beautiful on the Dardanian plain when the sky presses low, flaunting its jewelry. A night not to sleep in, though you be battle-weary, or love-weary, or devilled by hope, or torn by fear. On both sides of the fosse men seethed restlessly. Men and women still lingered on the walls of Troy where they had watched the battle all day. Usually, by night, the walls were bare of all save sentries, but this night pressed with too many hot lights; people trying to sleep were pressed between flaming sky and reeking earth, and were tormented by dreams that drove them from sleep.

Helen and Cressida lingered on the wall. They were wrapped in long cloaks; their faces glimmered in the weird light.

“I have been wanting to talk to you,” said Cressida.

“Indeed?” said Helen, frowning slightly.

She was the daughter of kings and the wife of a king, paramour of a prince, and was being fought for by all the kings of Greece. She was proud. And Cressida was only a priest’s daughter—but recently a slave in Agamemnon’s tent. The difference was great between them.

“Forgive me for addressing you so familiarly, Queen Helen,” said Cressida in her odd furry voice. “I know the distance between us. But, you know, you are a heroine, a demi-goddess. When you go out on the streets of Troy not only princes admire, but the populace cheers itself hoarse too. I am not too humble to esteem you. And, being here on the wall with you this way, after a day of such sights, I cannot forbear from addressing you. There is something old in our hearts that tells us wisdom is allied to beauty. And I need wise counsel.”