These words gave everyone fresh courage. They offered wine to the gods and returned to their camp to rest. But not Agamemnon. He was still worried about the ships. It wouldn’t be difficult for Hector to send a small group of men to set them on fire. He recalled the commanders and they quickly formed a guard made up of seven groups with fifty men in each. Odysseus and Diomedes also decided to sneak into the Trojan camp to see if anything was afoot.
Hector had the same idea. He sent a volunteer into the Achaean camp to find out if the ships were under guard.
Unfortunately the three men bumped into one another in the middle of the night, clad in animal hides. The Trojan tried to flee, but he wasn’t as quick as he thought, and it cost him his life.
Odysseus and Diomedes entered the Trojan camp without any problem. The men were all sleeping side by side in rows, with their spears stuck in the ground. A short distance away were two horses that aroused the Achaeans’ admiration. They had never seen such fine white horses. Odysseus took it upon himself to steal them, while Diomedes silently slit the throats of twelve men sleeping nearby.
They were hailed as heroes when they returned to their own camp. They washed off the dust and sweat—and the blood, of course. They positioned themselves facing into the wind in order to dry off their clothes. The sea breeze calmed them.
“Is there anything more beautiful than the sea?” said Odysseus. He had spent his whole life on the island of Ithaca, and at that moment he longed to return there. He was tired of the slaughter, tired of the war. Killing men in their sleep was an abomination, but they had acquired two splendid horses. They celebrated this achievement with food and wine and sacrifices to the gods.
________________
There wasn’t a sound in the cave. Miss looked at us with a weary smile.
“I can’t go on any longer today. I had a late night with my friend yesterday,” she said. She walked over to the mouth of the cave and gazed out. She stood there for a while between the light from outside and the darkness from inside; she seemed as if she might burst into flames at any moment.
“All clear. We can go home,” she said eventually.
A bomb had hit the shoemaker’s house, but he and his family had managed to get down to the cellar and were unhurt. His wife was beside herself with rage and despair, shaking her fist at the sky and cursing while her husband tried to calm her.
“We’re still alive. Everything else can be fixed,” he said.
“And what about the chickens?”
The bomb had destroyed the chicken coop too. However, it hadn’t touched the airfield, or the two German planes that didn’t even have time to take off.
After a while virtually the entire population of the village had gathered around the unfortunate family, bringing food and clothing. The mayor said they could stay with him for as long as necessary.
“We are not mice. We are human beings,” he said.
There must be something special about being human, I thought, but I didn’t know what it was.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I woke up to find my mother standing in the kitchen, singing quietly. She hadn’t done that since the Germans took my father away. One thing was clear: My grandfather hadn’t died, otherwise she wouldn’t be crooning to herself. I lay in my bed and listened; I recognized the song. It was a terrible ditty that everyone trotted out on every occasion, at the slightest provocation. At potluck suppers and family dinners, engagement parties and weddings. I’d even learned to play it on my father’s mandolin. I lay there quietly humming the harmony.
She shook the almond tree
with her small hands.
The white blossoms covered her back
and hair, they filled her arms.
I took them from the top of her head
kissed her tenderly
and spoke these words
to her:
You foolish girl, why the hurry
to turn your hair white?
It will happen anyway.
You too will become an old lady with a stoop
and glasses, trying in vain
to remember this day.
My mother had a lovely voice and a great capacity for happiness. When I went into the kitchen she said exactly what I’d expected her to say: “Your grandfather made it through the night.”
Dimitra and I ran to school, where Miss was ready to continue, a black ribbon around the white stem that was her neck.
________________
The day dawned and the light spread slowly over both Trojans and Achaeans, all mortal men, most of them afraid of what was to come. They thought about their wives back home, about their children or their elderly parents. Would they ever see them again?
A few of them rejoiced; the field of battle was their natural habitat. Mighty Ajax put on his armor—the bronze greaves, the cuirass. From his left shoulder he slung his sword in its silver scabbard, and finally he picked up his shield, which covered his entire body and which only he was strong enough to carry. It hung from a silver chain, with a three-headed snake writhing around it. On his head he set his crested helmet. It would be needed before very long.
His men stood ready by the trench.
Hector’s forces came toward them with Hector himself leading the way, carrying his round shield, as if he had nothing to fear. The smell of his son was still in his nostrils—the indescribable smell of a baby, along with the scent of Andromache, as palpable as her warm body. He would recognize that scent among a thousand others. He swallowed hard and raised his sword.
The two armies rushed at each other like waves rushing toward the rocks. Honors were even to begin with, and both sides lost many men and horses. It wasn’t until the afternoon that the Achaeans gained the upper hand, not least thanks to Agamemnon, their supreme commander, who strode along mowing down his opponents like a farmer scything his wheat. He showed no mercy, not even when two inexperienced young men fell to their knees and begged for their lives. It is the first time we kill that is difficult. After that, it quickly becomes a habit.
The sun grew hotter. The dead and wounded were covered in red dust from the fertile ground. Terrified horses galloped around dragging dead warriors or charioteers behind them. A number of the injured from both sides had sought the shade of the lone fig tree in the middle of the plain, but there too they continued to kill one another. Others crawled on all fours in the direction of the river’s cool waters. The air was filled with cries for help and screams of pain. Men slew and were slain. They wielded their swords and spears, hurled huge rocks.
Agamemnon was the greatest slayer of them all, cutting a swathe through his opponents in an unquenchable thirst for blood and yet more blood.
Hector realized that his forces could not go on. He ordered them to withdraw and seek refuge behind the beautiful walls of Troy. However, most of them ended up outside the huge gate, which no attacker had ever succeeded in breaching. It was as old as the city and the great oak that cast its shadow over it, which was why it was commonly known as the Gate of the Shadows.
Right there, with their nearest and dearest up on the wall exhorting them not to despair, everything changed. The fleeing Trojans gathered themselves, determined to ride out the fast-approaching storm and face Agamemnon, who seemed to be invincible. Two boys, brothers who were much loved by their mother and father, tried to stop him. They almost succeeded; one of them struck Agamemnon with his spear, but it did not pierce the soft flesh. Agamemnon shattered the boy’s helmet with his heavy sword, splitting his head in two and spilling his brains. His brother managed to stab Agamemnon in the arm, just below the elbow, but this did not save him; he was slain by a vicious blow to the neck.
Blood poured from the wound in Agamemnon’s arm, but the supreme commander of the Achaeans continued to fight until he was no longer bleeding. Then came the pain, a searing agony
that made him call for his charioteer to take him to the hollow ships where the army physician was located. At the same time he exhorted his men not to give up, but the day had turned to the Trojans’ advantage.
When Agamemnon left the field of battle, the men’s appetite for conflict sank like a stone in a barrel of oil: a little slowly, but it sank. Hector was an experienced warrior and noticed it immediately. He leaped down from his chariot and raised his sharp spears in a victorious gesture.
“The leader of the Achaeans is gone,” he shouted, giving the Trojans fresh courage to launch a counterattack. Even Paris appeared on top of the wall and caused considerable damage with his bow.
The Achaeans found it hard to resist without Agamemnon. The army became like an octopus: many tentacles and no head. Odysseus and Diomedes took Agamemnon’s place, but Paris managed to shoot an arrow into Diomedes’s foot, and was so happy that he broke into a defiant little dance.
Diomedes sneered at him. “Come closer if you dare, you stupid girl with your curly hair.”
Paris was neither stupid nor a girl. He was already taking aim once more, but Odysseus covered his wounded comrade with his shield so that he could draw the arrow out of his foot. The blood spurted and the pain was unbearable. In spite of his boastful attitude Diomedes had to leave the battle and was driven away by his charioteer.
Odysseus was left alone and considered taking to his heels, but his legs refused to obey him. They’re not used to running away, he thought, and soon he was surrounded by angry Trojans, like hounds wanting to tear a wild boar to pieces but lacking the courage to do so. Odysseus’s reputation and his skill with the spear enabled him to fight them off until a pair of foolhardy brothers challenged him. They were not from Troy but had traveled there as allies, determined to win immortal honor for themselves, and what honor could be greater than bringing down cunning Odysseus?
They hadn’t really thought it through. Odysseus mortally wounded one of them with his spear, but the other brother drove his own spear through Odysseus’s shield and in between his ribs. The pain was intense and Odysseus dropped to his knees. However, he immediately realized that the wound was not fatal. His attacker knew that he had made a terrible error and turned to flee, but Odysseus thrust his spear into the brother’s back with such force that the point came out on the other side. The young man ran for a few yards, but then fell down into black death. Odysseus too was in dire straits; it was only a matter of time before he went under, and he shouted for help as loudly as he could. He shouted three times and Menelaus heard him over the noise of the conflict. He and Ajax rushed to help their comrade. They found him at the last minute, just as his strength was fading. Ajax covered Menelaus with his enormous shield, enabling him to get Odysseus away. Then Ajax launched his attack on the Trojans, slaughtering all who stood in his path, men and horses, until the rest fled in terror.
Hector knew nothing of these developments. He was on the left flank by the river known as Scamander to some, Xanthos to others. He caused great damage and created havoc with his chariot and his spears. However, the Achaeans resisted until Paris once again demonstrated his skill with the bow by firing a triple-barbed shaft into the shoulder of Machaon, who was not only a fine warrior but also the army’s physician. It would be a serious loss if the Trojans succeeded in capturing him. Wise Nestor took him up into his chariot and drove back to the camp with his customary skill.
Meanwhile Hector learned that things were going badly on the other front, where Ajax had the Trojans in retreat. He made his way there at speed, driving his chariot over the dead and wounded; the wheels and undercarriage were soon stained red. It was a sight that made the Achaeans falter. Hector attacked them with sword and spear, mowing down men to the right and to the left and bringing chaos and confusion. He avoided Ajax, and Ajax avoided him. For the first time Ajax felt fear; something in his heart made him draw back. The Trojans saw this, and rushed at him in full force. His seven-oxhide shield saved him, along with the other Achaeans who came to his rescue, even though Paris hit several of them with his poisoned arrows.
Ajax was afraid that Hector would set fire to the Achaeans’ ships. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. He stayed where he was, exhorting his comrades to follow suit, and the bitter battle continued throughout the afternoon.
Wise old Nestor conveyed Machaon the physician to the safety of his tent at high speed. The years had weakened him, but he could still drive a chariot better than most. Achilles, who was standing in the prow of his vessel, saw that the Achaeans were being forced back toward the sea. It would have been natural to be concerned, to feel sorry for them, but the anger over Agamemnon’s insult still burned in his heart. He called to his friend Patroclus, who was sitting in his tent. This was the beginning of Patroclus’s demise. He came out at once, always ready to please Achilles.
“It won’t be long until the Achaeans are crowding around us, begging for help,” Achilles said. He asked Patroclus to go and ask Nestor if the wounded man he had seen on his chariot was Machaon, the son of the great Asclepius.
Patroclus found the two men in Nestor’s tent. A girl with pretty braided hair prepared drinks for them and placed a dish of bread and onions on the table. She mixed the wine with grated goat cheese and white barley meal.
Nestor, who was a friend of Patroclus’s father, invited him to sit down, but Patroclus refused. Achilles was eager to hear how Machaon was.
Nestor was normally a mild-mannered individual, but this was too much for him.
“What does Achilles care about our troubles and our wounds? Is he waiting for the Trojans to set fire to our ships and slaughter us, one after the other?”
Patroclus couldn’t help wondering the same thing. Nestor drank a little more, lamenting the fact that he was no longer young. He recalled the great deeds of his youth, and the girl with the pretty braided hair refilled his goblet. He took another drink, and then there was no stopping the old man’s garrulousness.
Patroclus listened politely, glancing at the girl from time to time. Eventually Nestor got around to what he had been trying to say in the first place.
“I recall what your father said to you before you boarded Achilles’s ship to sail to Troy and this loathsome war. ‘Remember, my son,’ he said, ‘that Achilles may be nobler-born than you, but you are older. And he listens to you.’ That was what he said, and that is what I say to you now. Talk to him. Perhaps you can persuade him to change his mind. If that doesn’t happen, at least he can let you join the battle. If he lends you his armor, then the Trojans might believe it’s him. Your men are rested, they can easily drive the exhausted Trojans back to their city, far away from our tents and ships.”
So spoke wise old Nestor, sowing the seeds of doubt and anxiety in Patroclus’s soul. On the way back to Achilles, Patroclus bumped into another old friend, who came limping toward him with an arrow buried deep in his thigh. His body was drenched in sweat, and blood was pouring from the wound. Was this to be the fate of all Achaeans? To die far from their native land, to end up as carrion for dogs and vultures?
The injured man gave him no words of hope.
“All is lost,” he said. “Our best men lie dead or wounded by spears, swords, or arrows. You cannot help them. But you can help me to pull out this arrow.”
Patroclus was in a hurry to get to Achilles, but he couldn’t leave the man in this state. He put his arm around his waist and half carried him to his tent, where he took a knife and cut out the shaft. He washed the wound with warm water and rubbed ground sea buckthorn on it. After a while the blood ceased flowing and the pain eased.
A short distance away, the battle raged on.
________________
Miss sat down.
“I’m as hungry as a wolf,” she said, which made us laugh. We’d seen her eating in the café—a sparrow ate more than she did. She would stare at her plate for a long time before t
aking her first bite with panic in her eyes. She would pop it into her mouth almost by chance, as if it didn’t concern her at all. So we laughed at her and she didn’t take offense, she joined in and laughed at herself.
Dimitra and I walked home together as usual.
“I don’t like that Achilles,” she announced.
To tell the truth, I didn’t like him either.
“He seems pretty full of himself,” I said. I didn’t leave it there. “He’s got a weird name too. I looked it up in my dad’s encyclopedia at home, and apparently it means ‘he who is in pain or anguish.’ ”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Dimitra shook her head, and her ponytail swung from side to side.
“Well, we’ll soon find out what he does next,” she said.
People were sitting outside the cafés in the square. A few of the German soldiers were there too. They’d been in our village for more than four years now. Some of us had learned a little German, some of the Germans had learned a little Greek. Even my mother knew how to say Gute Nacht, mein Liebling. It was a calm evening and the air was scented with thyme, oregano, and ouzo.
“We could be happy, both us and them,” Dimitra said, as if she were talking to herself.
I couldn’t be happy. My father was gone, my mother wept at night. My secret love for Miss burned in my breast. So I said nothing.
We parted outside Dimitra’s house beneath the mulberry tree with a nagging feeling that we’d quarreled, even though we hadn’t. I didn’t want to go home. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Miss, I took a stroll past her house, which was tucked away behind the abattoir. I clambered up into a cypress tree where I was practically invisible. There were no lights in any of her windows, but she was standing at one of them, brushing her black hair with long strokes.
After a while she closed the window. I thought it was a shame that she was shutting herself in, and even more of a shame that she was shutting me out.
The Siege of Troy Page 5