The Siege of Troy

by Theodor Kallifatides

  “If I lose you, I lose everything,” she said, and it was the truth. Her father and brothers had died in different wars, her mother and sisters were serving as slaves. She was the only one who was free and loved. She placed the child in his arms, but the boy was frightened by his father’s crested helmet and burst into tears. Hector took off his helmet, consoled his son, and gently caressed his wife’s cheek. She smiled at him, her eyes full of tears.

  “Do not be sad, beloved. No one will kill me before my time comes,” Hector reassured her. “But I know that time will come, as it will for everyone, the cowardly and the brave. Until then I must defend our city and our liberty. Nothing would cause me more pain than for you to end up enslaved in one of their beds. Go home with our son and let me do my duty.”

  Andromache held him tight and the warmth of her body gave him pause for a second or two before he freed himself from her embrace with great sorrow and tenderness, and set off to meet his fate. Paris followed close behind like a dog with its tail between its legs, determined to show that he was a better man than he had been so far.

  The Trojans lost many a battle during the confusion of those first few hours, but the arrival of Hector and Paris gave them fresh strength, and they slew a large number of Achaeans. The conflict continued all day long. Many courageous men from both sides died the black death, the injured moaned in pain, and terrified, riderless horses galloped straight through the foot soldiers, causing even greater terror and havoc.

  Little remained of the sun’s light, night was approaching when Hector raised his long spear and held it up, parallel with the ground. It was the sign for his men to stop fighting. Agamemnon did the same, and the two commanders stood just a few feet apart, bloody, weary, and full of sorrow. Both had lost some of their best warriors and friends.

  It was at that moment that Hector had an idea.

  “Trojans and Achaeans—listen to what is weighing on my heart. We have broken the pact we made this morning. I suggest we consider it afresh. Either you conquer our city and we go under, or the victory is ours and you go under. The finest men from all over Hellas are here. Choose the very best among you to fight against me in single combat. If my opponent slays me, he may take my armor to his ship, but my dead body must be returned to the Trojans and their wives so that it can be burned upon a pyre. And if I prevail over my opponent, with the help of the sun god Apollo, then I will take his armor and hang it up in the holy temple, but his body will be returned to you for burial. You are welcome to build a monument in his honor by the Hellespont so that all who sail by can see it. They will write that this man, however brave he might have been, was slain by shining Hector, and thus my name will live forever.”

  Thus spoke Hector, and the silence that followed was as cold as the north wind. Many of the Achaeans were ashamed because they were afraid to accept the challenge, and injured Menelaus could not stop himself from insulting them.

  “What are you—little girls?” he roared as he began to put on his armor in order to face Hector. It was sheer madness, and everyone knew it. Agamemnon did not mince his words.

  “You have lost your mind, my brother. You cannot fight a great warrior like Hector when you’re already hurt.” Menelaus knew he was right, and sat down again.

  Even wise old Nestor boasted that if he were not so advanced in years, he would happily go up against Hector. That hit home. Nine kings and Agamemnon, the supreme commander, volunteered. However, only one was needed, and the choice was made by drawing lots.

  The man selected was Ajax, King of Salamis, who had sailed to Troy with twelve ships. He was a tall and handsome man, gentle in his ways but a lion in battle. Hector’s face lost some of its color when Ajax stood opposite him, carrying a shield made from the hides of seven oxen covered in bronze plating, and a spear that was longer than any Hector had ever seen.

  As was the custom, the two men exchanged insults in order to heighten the tension.

  “You think you are great and mighty, Ajax, but what I see before me is a pile of shit with legs, hiding behind a big shield,” Hector began.

  “Keep on talking out of your backside for as long as you can,” Ajax replied calmly, raising his throwing arm.

  “The Achaean who is more powerful than me has not yet been born,” Hector hissed, hurling his own spear first. It whistled through the air faster than a glance, it was impossible to evade it, and it pierced the bronze plating on Ajax’s shield and six of the oxhides—but not the seventh, which had been strengthened with silver.

  Ajax was more successful. His spear slid over Hector’s shield and caught his neck. Dark red blood spurted out, and the Trojans held their breath while the Achaeans rejoiced prematurely. Hector was not seriously hurt. He picked up a stone and threw it at Ajax, who in turn cast an even bigger rock, which struck Hector’s knee and made him double over with the pain. Ajax rushed forward with his great sword, ready to slay him, when by some miracle two heralds stepped in and stopped the duel, because it was night, and night must be obeyed.

  The warriors were happy to have survived, and exchanged gifts to show their admiration for each other. Hector, who was the more eloquent of the two, said that they had fought like madmen, but that they were parting as friends.

  He went home to Troy, where his father was waiting for him, together with his wife, accompanied by other women whose long dresses swept the ground.

  Ajax was celebrated as a victor by his countrymen. Agamemnon sacrificed a bull, which was butchered and cooked over the fire; they ate until they could eat no more.

  The battle did not recommence the following morning. Both sides wanted to bury their dead. The Trojans did so without songs of mourning; they burned the dead on pyres in silence.

  The Achaeans, by contrast, marked their grief with speeches and sacrifices, keeping the ashes of the dead so that they could be taken home to their wives and children. It also happened that a number of cargo ships from the island of Lemnos arrived on the same day carrying hundreds of barrels of wine, which they traded for jewelry, oxhides, or slaves.

  The Trojans also purchased wine, and that evening there were very few warriors who went to bed sober—if any.

  That’s the way it is. We love differently and we mourn differently.

  ________________

  Miss took out her lemon-scented handkerchief and wiped her throat and the back of her neck.

  “I think we should let them sleep now; tomorrow is another day,” she said.

  “That’s not fair!” Dimitra called out.

  It made no difference. We were sent home.

  My father didn’t touch alcohol. I had never seen him drunk.

  “We drink the wine—it mustn’t drink us,” he would often say. Dimitra’s father, on the other hand, couldn’t stop pouring wine or ouzo down his throat until every bottle was empty. He never turned nasty, he just became very talkative and boastful.

  “When my father drinks he becomes twice himself. Not someone else,” Dimitra said.

  We didn’t feel like going home. We went and sat on the swing hanging from the mulberry tree. We swayed slowly back and forth. Dimitra’s thigh was touching mine and I was really happy, even though I was in love with Miss.

  “We love differently and we mourn differently,” that was what she’d said.

  She’s probably right, I thought.

  At that moment Dimitra’s father appeared.

  “I see our little turtledoves are perched in the tree,” he said.

  Dimitra went bright red. He really did look twice as big as he actually was. His gestures were expansive, and he took up half the road as he stood there rocking from one leg to the other.

  “What did I tell you?” she whispered to me.

  He positioned himself right in front of me and, with a certain amount of effort, managed to arrange his face into a serious, almost severe expression.


  “You know how much I love my daughter!”

  That was unexpected.

  “I can guess, sir.”

  “Well then.”

  He didn’t say another word. He set off toward his house and Dimitra followed him, imitating his unsteady gait. Her ponytail swung from side to side. Before she went indoors she turned and smiled at me. She had grown into such a lovely girl.

  The evening had come. A star fell from the sky, but I didn’t have time to make a wish. If I’d had time, I knew what my wish would have been.

  MY MOTHER WOKE ME early the next morning. She told me that my grandfather was sick, which came as no surprise. He’d lost a lot of weight recently, and no longer had the energy to eat, talk, and joke as he used to.

  “Is he very sick?” I asked.

  “He’s eighty-two years old.”

  Which meant that he had eaten his bread. That the kingdom of the underworld awaited him.

  My grandmother shared this view. His time was up.

  He was lying in the old, creaky double bed.

  “Ask for his blessing,” my grandmother whispered.

  I approached him very slowly. He smiled and winked at me.

  “They think I’m going to die, but I have no intention of going anywhere. I want to see how this war ends.”

  He sounded exactly the same as he always did.

  “Grandpa isn’t going to die,” I informed my mother and grandmother.

  I hurried off to school, where Miss was ready to resume the story of the other war, the one between the Trojans and the Greeks, who were known as Achaeans back then. At that moment we heard the sirens and the roar of the planes once more. We reached the cave just as the bombs began to fall.

  Miss was perfectly calm and collected.

  “Let us continue,” she said, and that was exactly what she did.

  ________________

  The Achaeans were well rested when they woke the following morning. They each ate a piece of bread, drank some wine, and prepared for the impending battle. The Trojans did the same. The sun had barely risen when the armies charged toward each other on the open plain. Shield against shield, sword against sword, spear against spear. Men who roared with elation as they slew their opponent, men who screamed with pain as they were slain. The ground was stained red. Seen from a great distance the conflict would have looked like an anthill; there was hardly any separation between one side and the other.

  However, one man stood out. It was Hector, spreading death and destruction all around him with his spear, which was eleven ells in length—that’s more than sixteen feet. No one could get near him. The Achaeans fatally wounded his charioteers, first one and then his replacement, but Hector continued on foot, nothing could halt his progress. The Achaeans were driven back toward their hollow ships.

  The battle should have been resolved, but the weather changed in an instant from bright sunshine to darkness and wind. Heavy rain came pouring down. Hector had to break off, because he could no longer distinguish friend from foe. This sudden gloom was the salvation of the Achaeans. They withdrew behind the wooden wall protecting their ships and remained there, downcast and heartsick, all hope gone.

  Hector addressed his men. He lamented the fact that early nightfall had prevented them from defeating the enemy once and for all, and burning their ships. However, they had still won a great victory. They would celebrate, but they must also remain alert so that the Achaeans didn’t sneak past under cover of darkness.

  And that was what the Trojans did. They unharnessed their sweating horses from their chariots and gave them food and water. They gathered wood and lit huge fires that spread their glow over a wide area. They washed the blood from their bodies and their armor in the cool, clear waters of the River Xanthos. Meanwhile people emerged from the city with oxen, sheep, bread, and wine.

  The warriors spent the night on the plain, feeling a mixture of joy and sorrow. Almost all of them had lost someone. Hector thought of his youngest brother, who had died when an arrow pierced his heart. The young man’s head had drooped like a poppy weighed down by its seed capsule in a shower of spring rain.

  It was a quiet night. The fires burned, the horses rested by the chariots, and everyone waited for the first flush of dawn.

  Agamemnon got no rest that night. His army’s situation was more than worrying. Their ships were unguarded, their losses in the day’s conflict were great, and he missed Achilles, the greatest warrior of them all. His behavior had been foolish to say the least. Why did he have to take Achilles’s woman? He deeply regretted his actions. Something must be done. He sent his heralds to wake the other leaders, and one by one they came to his tent.

  First of all, they agreed to the immediate formation of a unit to guard the ships, and this was done. The key question remained: How could they persuade Achilles to return to the fray? Agamemnon was willing to do almost anything to appease him—send Briseis back, ply him with generous gifts of gold and silver, make him the commander of seven cities, give him one of Agamemnon’s own daughters as his wife.

  Odysseus, Ajax, and Diomedes, who regarded themselves as friends of Achilles, offered to go and see him. Old Phoenix also accompanied them; he had known Achilles ever since he was a little boy.

  They found Achilles outside his tent, playing his lyre and singing to his dearest friend Patroclus of the deeds of mighty warriors. It was as if the war no longer concerned him, and he greeted his comrades with joy, particularly old Phoenix. He provided them with meat, wine, and bread, and everything was just as it used to be. But not quite. Achilles brusquely dismissed Agamemnon’s offer of reconciliation.

  “He took away Briseis, whom I love. Now he wants to give her back to me and expects me to be grateful.”

  “He swears by the name of Zeus that he has never lain with her,” Odysseus pointed out.

  Achilles was not impressed.

  “That old goat would lie with my dog just to get at me. He has always been given more than enough, but he wants it all. He can try that with the Trojans, but not with me,” he said.

  Phoenix tried to calm him.

  “Only death is implacable, my son. Wise men—and you are wise—allow themselves to be moved if there is good reason to do so. Only you can save the Achaeans from being slaughtered like sheep. It is your duty to help them, and it is what your father would want.”

  Phoenix had been like a father to Achilles. He had played with him when he was small, comforted him when he hurt himself, even taught him to aim his little penis so that he didn’t pee on his feet. Achilles loved this old man, but he was no longer a child.

  “My duty is to live my life—nothing else,” he said.

  Agamemnon’s emissaries left the tent with heavy hearts. Phoenix didn’t go with them. Achilles’s servants prepared a comfortable bed with oxhides and clean sheets, and the old man fell asleep almost right away.

  Patroclus also retired with Iphis, his woman, given to him by Achilles.

  Achilles himself couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t sure if he’d done the right thing. Was he really prepared to allow his countrymen to die by Hector’s sword and spear? Agamemnon had certainly behaved like a greedy warmonger, but that wasn’t the fault of anyone else. Achilles also knew that this wasn’t the whole truth. He missed Briseis more than he was willing to admit. His bed felt like a coffin without her. She had never been easy to handle. In spite of the fact that she was his concubine, his property, she remained herself.

  “You can tear me to pieces and throw me to the dogs, but you cannot force me to love you.”

  That was the first thing she had said to him as she stood before him with her long dark hair, looking him in the eye without fear. He had plundered her city, where her father was the priest; he had killed the man she was to marry and taken her with him as his slave. But Briseis was no slave, and he coul
d see that. He could see freedom in her tall, slender body, in her confident gaze, in her fine clothes. He realized that she meant what she said, and for the first time in his life he capitulated in the face of a will stronger than his.

  He let her be. Briseis was free, but she wasn’t blind. She saw him swimming naked in the sea, she saw him playing like a little boy with his beloved Patroclus. She saw him in the evenings when he returned to his tent after the day’s battles, covered in dust and blood. She poured him wine while other young women washed his body with slow movements, the same women who would later climb into his bed. The desire began to grow within her. One night she could no longer fight it, and it was she who climbed into his bed.

  It turned out that he had been waiting for her.

  There were no other women from then on. Briseis made his flinty heart open up like a sunflower at the first light of day. He missed her. Agamemnon had stolen her from him, and his bitter resentment at this insult filled his soul to overflowing. No, and no again! Agamemnon would have to fight his war without the assistance of Achilles.

  At the same time, he was aware that his life would be short. That was why his mother had dressed him as a girl when he was a child and hidden him away from the world so that he would not have to fight in this war. She knew he would gain great honor but would also meet his death. He knew it too, but was still trying to avoid his fate.

  Was that possible?

  He remained awake, troubled by his thoughts, until Diomedia, a girl he had abducted from the island of Lesbos, crawled into his bed and lulled him to sleep like a baby.

  Agamemnon was downcast when he heard that Achilles had refused to help. He sat there, silent and gloomy. Diomedes, one of the emissaries, tried to console him.

  “We will fight without Achilles. He has always been stubborn, and our pleas have made him even more obstinate. We will fight without him, and you, Agamemnon, will be the greatest of the great tomorrow.”