The Siege of Troy

by Theodor Kallifatides

  “If any other man came to us with such a suggestion and in such haste, we would certainly reject it. That is not the case here and now; Agamemnon is the most powerful among us. Therefore I say to you: Order your men to prepare for battle!”

  With those words he set off for the tents housing his men. The others did the same; impressive men bearing royal scepters called upon their warriors, who poured from their tents and ships like swarms of bees. It took nine heralds to silence them so they could hear what Agamemnon had to say. He stepped forward holding his scepter, which in truth was the finest of them all. It had been fashioned with incomparable skill by Hephaestus himself, the lame god of craftsmen and the husband of Aphrodite, goddess of love.

  “Listen to me my friends, brave warriors and vassals! In the past, almighty Zeus fooled me into believing that victory was ours. Today his message is different. He has ordered me to return home at once, and he leaves me no choice, even though the shame is great, and future generations will never understand how we failed to vanquish the Trojans, whose numbers are so much less than ours. If peace were declared right now and we sat down to eat and drink with them, and if every Trojan had ten of us to take care of, many of us would be left without sustenance. One of them to ten of us. Nine long years have passed, our ships are rotting, our anchors rusting. Our women and children have been waiting for us, and now we must return without having accomplished what we came here to do.

  “So I say to you—and you must obey me: We are sailing home. We will never walk the wide streets of Troy.”

  At these words the men began to run back to their tents and ships, the dust whirling around them and forming a cloud over their longing for home.

  The war could have ended on that day.

  It was Odysseus who first made sure that didn’t happen. He borrowed Agamemnon’s scepter and ran from tent to tent, from ship to ship, exhorting the men to stay, not to give up now that victory and the sweet moment of vengeance were close.

  “I understand that you are all longing to go home,” he said, “but we will not return as wretched cowards, making our wives and children ashamed of us.”

  Wise old Nestor also played his part. He reminded them that Zeus had promised them victory but had never said it would be easy.

  He added fuel to the fire. “You will avenge every groan, every sigh that faithless Helen’s lover has heard. You will lie with the wives of the Trojans in their soft beds.”

  The men listened, and their lust for battle was reawakened. By the pale light of the late afternoon they could see the beautiful walls of Troy in the distance; they knew what treasures, what pleasures lay behind them. In addition, they wanted to see the most beautiful woman in the world: lovely Helen, lovelier than all their fantasies.

  The Achaeans prepared for the final reckoning. Foot soldiers and horsemen from Sparta and Mycenae, from Argos and Thebes, from Cyprus and Crete—from every corner of Hellas, to put it briefly—were gathered. The powerful army moved forward slowly like a grass fire—and it was equally dangerous.

  The Trojan lookouts on the hills surrounding the city realized what was going on and sounded the alarm. There was little time for discussion and deliberation. The king’s son Hector, who was leading the defense of the city, ordered that the gates should be opened. Out came men, horses, and chariots at great speed. They took up their positions and waited for the storm while the elderly, both men and women, retreated to pray. The sound of their voices was like the hum of cicadas in an olive grove.

  ________________

  Miss paused at this point, and my friend Dimitra couldn’t keep quiet.

  “Miss, why were the Achaeans so cruel? Why did they want to go for the Trojans’ wives and daughters?”

  Miss held up her hands.

  “Not to enjoy the women’s favors but to humiliate their men. That’s what they did back then, and that’s what still happens today. A woman’s body is the field of conflict where men crush one another’s pride and honor.”

  “I am fourteen years old, and my body is not a field of conflict. My body is me.”

  Miss looked at Dimitra in surprise.

  “I hope you never forget that,” she said.

  The rain was coming down more heavily now; it was as if the sky were a box being emptied over us. Suddenly a group of German soldiers ran into the schoolyard, stark-naked. They jumped around yelling and whooping, their fair-skinned penises swinging up and down and sideways. The Germans had been longing for rain too.

  “The children are playing,” Miss commented.

  I didn’t really care. I just wanted to touch her as she stood there with her long white throat.

  “You call them children, Miss?” I asked.

  At last she turned her gaze on me.

  “I’m afraid so. That’s what they are,” she replied.

  Her response was the only caress I got that day.

  It was time to go home. Dimitra suddenly stopped beneath the mulberry tree in front of her house. We used to pelt each other with its ripe fruit when we were little.

  “Promise me you’ll never be as cruel as that,” she said.

  “I promise I’ll never throw berries at you again.”

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I meant as cruel as the Achaeans, for goodness’ sake!”

  I caught a glimpse of Miss as we passed her house. She was standing at the window with her arms folded across her breast, as if she was trying to keep her heart in the right place. She looked small and lonely. Sometimes she would go for long walks across the fields and through the olive groves, her black skirt flapping. She moved fast, as if she were chasing someone or someone were chasing her.

  It was impossible to tell.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY the sirens sounded again, although this time it was a little later. On this occasion the German battalion was ready, and their anti-aircraft guns forced the British pilots to stay higher up. The bombs were scattered at random, and we sought refuge in the cave once more. Without thinking about it we settled in the same places as before. Miss was smiling as she looked at us. I closed my left eye and pretended that her smile was directed only at me.

  “So what shall we do today?” she teased us. She knew exactly what we wanted, and continued her story.

  ________________

  The Trojans rushed forward shrieking like cranes, a sound that could strike fear into the bravest heart. The Achaeans met them in complete silence, and this silence was even more terrifying.

  Both armies moved rapidly across the plain, the dust whirling; they saw their opponents as if through a fog, but one man strode ahead of the Trojans. He was an impressive sight with a panther’s head over his shoulders. He was carrying his bow and his sword, and in his right hand he held two copper-covered spears, challenging the Achaeans’ leading fighters to deadly single combat. This was Paris, the man who had lured Helen from her husband’s arms and home. The man who, more than any other, was responsible for this dreadful war.

  The Achaeans were led by the betrayed spouse himself—Menelaus, King of Sparta. His long hair and beard covered his face, apart from his eyes. He made straight for Paris with such resolve that the younger man turned aside and sought refuge among his own.

  Hector, son of Priam and brother of Paris, lost his temper and yelled at the lily-livered womanizer whose handsome face had brought such misery to the city of Troy and its people.

  “You’re afraid to face the man whose wife you stole? What kind of creature are you?” Hector shouted. Paris regretted his cowardice; he didn’t want to look a fool in front of all the Trojans and Achaeans. He offered to face Menelaus man to man in single combat, but only on condition that the war would end, regardless of which of them won. No more deaths, no more widows and fatherless children—and Helen would go with the victor.

  Hector and the Trojans thought this was a good suggestion.<
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  Menelaus agreed. “We have all suffered enough because of something that really concerns only Paris and me. One of us must die, but the rest of you should make peace as soon as possible. Let us first make an offering to the gods and swear before them that we will keep this vow.”

  And so it was decided. Some of the men were sent to fetch sheep and oxen for the sacrifice. Both armies drove their spears into the dry ground and sat down, rejoicing at the thought of not having to fight anymore. The noise subsided, apart from the heartrending bleating of the sheep, who somehow sensed the fate awaiting them.

  Inside the palace Helen was trying to suppress her anxiety by weaving a purple cloak when she received a visitor—one of Paris’s sisters, the most beautiful, who came to tell her about the impending duel between Helen’s lover and her former husband.

  “You will belong to the victor, and the rest of us will be left in peace,” she said. Helen felt a sudden sharp pain in her belly and doubled over.

  “Are you with child?” her sister-in-law asked, her voice filled with happy anticipation.

  Helen wasn’t with child, but her belly was filled with longing for her former husband, with images of her own city of Sparta and her friends in their short dresses. Her eyes filled with tears when she thought of the olive and lemon groves, of the clear, swirling waters. She had left everything behind for the love of a stranger, but the memories had remained with her, living a life of their own within her heart.

  “No, I’m not with child,” she replied.

  She put on a shimmering blue shawl and set off for the city wall, from which she would be able to see the impending fight. She didn’t even know what she wanted, deep down. To be invisible, perhaps—the stranger’s most frequent daydream. She knew that everyone’s eyes were upon her.

  Many had gathered to watch. The news of the encounter between Menelaus and Paris had proved an irresistible draw to those who were not capable of fighting—old men, women, small children. Helen felt as if they were all looking at her, blaming her. She was the one who had brought death and misfortune with her. She was the source of all evil.

  However, she was wrong. The people appreciated her beauty, particularly the elderly, who sighed deeply as if they were watching yet another spring pass by, while they themselves were too weak to go along with it.

  King Priam was seated on a flat area of the high wall, surrounded by his advisers. One of them whispered that it was worth going to war for a woman like that; we die only once. Helen’s shawl gave a hint of her high bosom, her silken-soft skin.

  Priam greeted her like a daughter.

  “Come and sit by me. My son, your husband, is about to engage in a fight to the death. Who is his opponent? Is it the man who stands a head taller than all the rest, or the one who is a little shorter but has the chest and shoulders of a lion?”

  “No, my king. The tall man is Agamemnon, ruler of many cities and a hardened warrior. The other is Odysseus, whose tongue is sharper than his sword.”

  “Can you see your former husband anywhere?”

  “Yes—he is standing motionless, but that is misleading. He is as strong as an ox and as fierce as a tiger. He is at his most dangerous when standing still.”

  On the open plain below the walls, many sheep and oxen had been sacrificed. The smoke rose straight up into the sky, difficult to interpret. The two opponents stepped forward. Paris and Menelaus. Now the outcome of the war would be decided—and in whose bed Helen would wake the next morning. She was in love with Paris, while at the same time she missed Menelaus. She was happy in Paris’s city with its beautiful walls and its wide streets, but she also loved Menelaus’s Sparta, which had no walls apart from its men and women. She adored the blue-green sea below Troy, yet she longed for the river in Sparta.

  She couldn’t choose. She wanted everything. The gods never give anyone everything. She knew that. She closed her eyes as the two men began to walk toward each other, their spears at the ready.

  ________________

  There wasn’t a sound in the cave; it was so quiet you could have heard a flea fart.

  “So what happened?” Dimitra called out impatiently.

  Miss smiled.

  “The next time the planes come, you’ll find out,” she said.

  “I’ll be wondering all night!” Dimitra said, which made Miss laugh. She didn’t do that very often, and I was surprised. It seemed as if she didn’t want to laugh. She covered her mouth with her hand as if she were trying to trap the laugh inside.

  There were beads of sweat—like a pearl necklace—on her throat even though it wasn’t the least bit warm inside the cave. She dabbed at her neck with a white handkerchief that smelled of lemons.

  It was time to go home.

  That afternoon Miss was going to visit a friend and colleague who lived in a nearby village.

  We discovered that a bomb had hit the viaduct, which had been built by the Romans, and the windmill that had stood there forever. The sails were broken, no longer capable of turning.

  “No point in the wind blowing now,” Dimitra said.

  THE PLANES DIDN’T COME the following day, so we were supposed to have our lessons as usual. The visit to her friend had cheered Miss up, and she was wearing a red ribbon around her neck, which made her look like a peony. She attempted to explain Greek syntax to us, but the whole class wanted to know how the fight between Menelaus the betrayed husband and Paris the seducer had turned out.

  She gave in, but it seemed to me that she was equally eager to continue with the story. She took a moment to prepare herself as usual, covering her face with her hands as if she were trying to hide from us, then immediately removing them and slowly reappearing like the moon from behind the clouds.

  ________________

  The time had come. Both the Trojans and the Achaeans had eaten their fill of the animals that had been sacrificed. Only Paris and Menelaus had not partaken. They were standing to one side, surrounded by their closest companions, who were providing wise words and encouragement. “Paris is nothing without his bow,” Odysseus said. “Menelaus is strong, but slow. Take him by surprise,” Hector advised Paris.

  And that was exactly what happened. Paris hurled his spear before Menelaus had even managed to swallow the saliva in his mouth. His well-made shield saved him, and he threw his own spear with strength fueled by anger. It went straight through Paris’s shield, and its sharp point scratched the younger man’s flesh. Menelaus leaped forward and attempted to bring down his heavy sword on Paris’s crested helmet. At that moment something extraordinary happened. The sword broke in two. Menelaus couldn’t believe his eyes, and in that brief moment Paris managed to get away. Menelaus searched for him, the Trojans searched for him, but he was famed for his ability to run, and he was already gone, on the way into the city and home.

  Helen had also returned home. She reproached him bitterly for his cowardice and for his earlier boast that he was superior to her former husband in every way, both in the field of honor and in the double bed. Paris was crushed. He fell to his knees before her and begged her to let him explain. He wasn’t a coward—it was just that he’d suddenly realized he could die. At that moment he was seized by such overwhelming desire for her that it clouded his mind. He wanted her like never before; he hadn’t even felt this way the very first time they lay together. His entire body was trembling. He didn’t want to die a hero, or in any other way, until he had held her in his arms for one last time.

  Helen saw the tears on his cheeks, she saw the beautiful face that had made her leave her home and her husband and her newborn son, bringing unhappiness and shame upon herself. She remembered their first coupling as if it were yesterday. They had ridden for a whole day and night without stopping in order to get as far away from Sparta as possible. In the morning they reached a deserted inlet in the Bay of Corinth. Dawn was breaking. They dismo
unted and threw themselves at each other with a certainty she would never experience again. What had happened was inevitable. She was doomed to desire him. Even if he lied, even if he wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. She forgave his cowardice and led him into the bedroom.

  As the two of them lay in each other’s arms, the search for Paris continued. The Trojans joined in because they wanted the war to end, not because they were concerned for Paris’s welfare. Eventually Agamemnon spoke.

  “Listen to me, Trojans and Achaeans! It is clear that Paris has run away from the fight, and therefore victory must go to Menelaus. I know my brother. Such a victory is a bitter blow for him. However, it is still a victory. It means that Helen must return to him with all the treasures she took from Sparta. An agreed sum must also be paid in reparation. Then we will sail home and peace will reign between us, as we promised the gods with sacrifices and sacred oaths.”

  The men were tired of the war, and cheered to show their approval.

  The gods were not happy. Nor was Menelaus. He wanted to see Paris lying dead on the dry ground, he wanted everyone to witness the deed and to remember that the act of taking another man’s wife does not go unpunished.

  He was standing a little way off angrily mulling things over when he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his stomach. A black arrow had pierced his coat and belt, and blood was pouring from the wound. Agamemnon ran to his injured brother.

  “The Trojans have broken the truce. That will cost them dearly, but first we must take care of you,” he said. It turned out that Menelaus wasn’t as seriously hurt as they had first feared.

  The Achaeans stormed across the plain, disgusted by the treachery of the Trojans, who were taken by surprise; they knew nothing of the arrow that had struck Menelaus. It took a while before they were able to muster resistance. They were also lacking their leader, Hector, who had taken advantage of the truce to go and see his wife and newborn son.

  When he heard what had happened he wanted to rush straight back, but his wife, Andromache, begged him to stay, not to make her a widow and leave his son without a father.