The Siege of Troy

by Theodor Kallifatides

  I went home. My mother had cooked potatoes in tomato sauce. We ate in silence for a while.

  “Mom, do you think Dad will come back?”

  She shrugged.

  “Where else would he go?” she said.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY was Sunday, so we didn’t have to go to school. However, we did have to go to church. It was compulsory for all children. The Germans also celebrated mass in the barracks, led by the captain. According to the rumors, he was a devout Catholic. I didn’t really know what that meant. We were part of the Greek Orthodox Church.

  After the service people gathered in the square. The captain was sitting with the mayor, and Miss was there too. All at once something came over me. I went up to their table, apologized for disturbing them, and asked Miss what the difference was between Catholics and Orthodox. The mayor was about to box my ears for my insolence, but Miss stopped him.

  “Catholics believe in the pope. Followers of the Orthodox church believe in God,” she said nonchalantly. Then she leaned across and said something to the captain that made him laugh out loud. Miss actually spoke German; before the war she had studied in Heidelberg.

  In the afternoon Mom and I went to visit my grandfather. He was feeling better and entertained me with stories from America. He had emigrated there when he was young, but he couldn’t bear to live away from our village, so he came back.

  “Life is here,” he said. “The rest is nonsense.”

  “Have you ever been in love, Grandpa?”

  “All the time—with my little Maria.”

  My grandmother.

  “I might be in love too.”

  “I can understand that. Dimitra is a fine eel,” he said, but then we had to change the subject because Mom and Grandma called us to the table.

  “Come along, old man,” Grandma said briskly. Grandpa gave me a wink and a wry smile, as if to say that being in love is sheer hell.

  We had lentil soup; Grandma had let it simmer for more than eight hours, and the hard lentils melted in the mouth like mulberries. Mom took a glass of retsina with her parents, and it immediately went to her head.

  “Where are you now, my beloved husband?” she said straight out into the air, hoping that my father was still somewhere, at least.

  “Don’t cry, Daughter,” Grandma said. “Your husband is alive—I can feel it in my bones.”

  The advantage of people who are easily moved is that they are just as easily consoled.

  Mom and I walked home hand in hand.

  The darkness was deep but didn’t weigh very much.

  Somehow, and for no reason at all, we were happy. Mom smelled of lemons too, just like Miss.

  THE NEXT MORNING Dimitra and I walked to school together. I wanted to cheer her up, and told her that she was “a fine eel,” according to my grandfather.

  It didn’t cheer her up.

  “You’re an eel,” she said.

  Miss was smiling on this Monday morning.

  “I don’t suppose I need to ask what you’d like to do today?” she said, and went on with her story.

  ________________

  While Patroclus took care of his injured friend, the battle continued with undiminished intensity. Hector appeared to be invincible, and his men followed him as a swarm of bees follows its queen. The Achaeans were constantly pushed back, defeat seemed inevitable. Only two obstacles remained: first, the deep trench that the Achaeans had dug, and second, the high wooden wall protecting their ships. Hector wanted to storm their camp, but his swift horses refused to enter the dirty water in the trench or to jump over it.

  At that moment Polydamas stepped forward. He was an experienced warrior, and Hector’s childhood friend. He pointed out that it would be madness to force horses and chariots into the trench. If the Achaeans launched a counterattack, the Trojans would be caught like mice in a trap. It would be safer to leave the horses and chariots behind and cross on foot.

  Hector was not only brave but wise, and he thanked Polydamas for his advice. He leaped down from his chariot, and his men followed his example. He marshaled his troops into five companies, each led by a reliable commander.

  However, there is always one foolhardy idiot who is determined to make a name for himself. A chieftain called Asius was in a hurry to gain honor and acclaim, and raced ahead in his chariot. Luck was with him at first. The Achaeans had left a gate in the wooden wall open in case any of their own had been left outside. Asius aimed for this gate, and his company did the same, assuming that they would meet no resistance. But the gate was guarded by two men who refused to give way, like an oak tree that does not bend in even the strongest winds, thanks to its extensive root system.

  There was a fierce battle at the gate, and reinforcements quickly came to the aid of both sides. The Achaeans hurled huge rocks at the attacking Trojans. Many found their target, crushing helmets and crashing through shields. For almost ten years the Achaeans had laid siege to Troy; now all at once the Trojans were besieging them, which made the Achaeans fight with a fresh passion. The compulsion to defend ourselves is always stronger than the desire to conquer.

  If anyone knew this better than the rest it was Hector, who had kept his city safe for all those long years, in spite of the fact that his forces were far fewer in number.

  He remained on the other side of the trench, wondering whether to cross or not. Suddenly a black sea eagle flew across the battlefield from the left, with a writhing snake in its beak. The snake reared up and struck the eagle repeatedly on the breast, until the bird dropped its prey on the ground among the Trojans.

  They had never seen such a creature before. It was blood-red, like fire. Nor was it afraid of them—quite the reverse. It raised its head and looked at them with an unfathomable expression, then slithered away and disappeared under a blackberry bush.

  “It’s an omen,” someone said.

  “It certainly is,” someone else agreed.

  “We need to call in a soothsayer who is experienced in interpreting such signs,” suggested a third.

  Once again Polydamas approached Hector.

  “Everyone knows that a bird flying in from the left means misfortune. The gods are warning us. The most sensible course of action would be to turn for home and to be satisfied with what we have already achieved.”

  Hector had slain so many men that he was covered in blood from head to toe. He looked like death itself, but his heart hungered for even more slaughter.

  “My dear Polydamas, you are talking like a cowardly old woman. You expect me to take notice of some passing bird?”

  “It’s a bad omen,” Polydamas repeated.

  Then Hector uttered the words that would reverberate through the centuries, long after he was gone.

  “There is only one good omen: to fight for your country.”

  The first person to be fired up by these words was Hector himself, and he continued: “If any man refuses to follow me, I will kill him myself with this spear!” he said, exhorting his men to make one final, decisive attack.

  They obeyed him, pouring down the hill like a raging torrent and hurling themselves over the wall. Their crested helmets shone in the rosy afternoon light, striking fear into the hearts of the Achaeans, who wanted to flee to their ships. They would have done so, if mighty Ajax hadn’t stopped them.

  They turned and threw thousands of stones at their assailants, who did the same. It looked as if the sky had shattered and was raining down on the conflict, so constant was the hail of missiles from defenders to attackers and vice versa.

  Hector also received an unexpected boost. Sarpedon, a Lycian prince, appeared with his bronze shield and his long spears and entered the fight like a starving mountain lion who had spotted a herd of grazing cattle.

  He was the one who managed to open the way for the rest. Hector smashed the lock
on the gate with a heavy rock. Many men were killed on both sides. The Achaeans were fighting for their lives now.

  There was no stopping Hector. Not even a god could slow him down as he pushed forward with his twin spears, his eyes as black as the night.

  Eventually the Achaeans gave up and began to run toward their swift ships in a state of total disarray. But Ajax, the son of Telamon of Salamis, would never yield to a mortal who had been raised on bread. His namesake Ajax, the son of Oileus of Lokroi, also stood firm. The first of these two was big and strong as an ox. The second was small and quick as a wasp. The first fought with spear and sword, the second mostly with his bow and a shield so light that it didn’t stop him from using his speedy legs.

  Together they managed to inject fresh courage into the fleeing Achaeans, who turned and stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the onslaught of Hector and his men.

  Things didn’t go quite as easily as Hector had expected. He was beaten back, and lost several of his best men, who fell to either the spear of one Ajax or the bow of the other, whose arrows rarely missed their target. Any warrior who exposed the tiniest patch of skin for even a second immediately fell victim to his triple-barbed shaft.

  Unfortunately Ajax the small also displayed his godlessness. He cut off the head of a man who was married to one of Hector’s sisters and threw it at the attacking Trojans as if it were a rock. They stopped dead when they saw the gory projectile flying through the air before dropping at Hector’s feet. For a moment Hector was seized by fear as the head stared at him with open eyes devoid of light and life, but it wasn’t long before he was filled by an even greater rage. He entered the fray once more, but without success and with fresh losses.

  The situation was even worse for the Trojans on the left flank. They had the misfortune to encounter the Cretan king Idomeneus with his bronze-clad spears and his shield, which nothing could penetrate.

  Many Trojans lost their lives there and met black death. One man’s head was cloven in two, one had his belly pierced by a triple-barbed shaft, one lay with his intestines spilling into the dust.

  The aim was also to take the armor of the dead to keep in reserve, and the struggles for this armor and for the body itself became increasingly bitter. Just as many men died defending the dead as the living.

  They fought on, slaying and being slain, rushing ahead like gusts of wind, none of them prepared to give up. Even the wounded Menelaus rose from his bed and joined in. After all, it was for his honor that the Achaeans were battling and dying. It was for Helen’s sake that so many had left their homes and families. Menelaus was still in pain, but he picked up his great spear and left his tent, and the Achaeans gained fresh strength when they saw him.

  Helenus, the brother of Hector and an incomparable bowman, saw Menelaus coming—and Menelaus saw him. Both men acted simultaneously, one throwing his spear, the other firing off his arrow. Both missiles hit their mark. The arrow struck Menelaus’s breastplate, the spear Helenus’s arm. The arrow glanced off but the spear caused significant damage, and Helenus was forced to withdraw.

  Menelaus had no time to enjoy this small victory. Instead he had to defend himself against the next assailant, a Trojan chief who was known to him and who was approaching with speed and determination. Menelaus let fly his spear a fraction too soon and missed, while the other man’s spear hit the center of his shield. Fortunately it didn’t go through, and the shaft broke.

  And so they stood there face-to-face, sweating and out of breath. Menelaus drew his silver-studded sword, his opponent a bronze ax with a shaft of ancient olive wood, as hard as stone. The Trojan struck first and caught the ridge of Menelaus’s crested helmet. Everything went black, but the blade hadn’t broken the helmet. A blow from Menelaus’s sword, however, fell on the other man’s forehead at the base of the nose, shattering the bone. His eyeballs burst from their sockets and dropped to the ground like the marbles children play with, and he doubled over and fell where he stood.

  Menelaus placed his foot on the dead man’s chest, plundered his armor, then turned to the Trojans, using the corpse as a podium.

  “Listen to me, you pathetic cowards! You who have insulted not only me by stealing away my wife, but also the laws of hospitality! You think you can set fire to our ships and slaughter us all, but however much you may dream of that, it will never happen. Because the all-powerful god, he who gathers the clouds in the sky, father of all of us, has favored you for long enough, but you never grow tired of the conflict as men usually do. When they are sleeping and making love, when they are singing and dancing—but you never tire of the war.”

  As Menelaus finished speaking, a spear struck his shield. The young man who had thrown it immediately turned and ran, but was caught by an arrow from behind. It pierced his bladder and he died in his comrades’ arms.

  And so the long day continued. The noise of the battle rose to the skies. At one moment the Trojans rejoiced, at the next the Achaeans, but neither side could be certain of victory.

  Hector had been informed that things were not going well for his troops down by the ships, and he rode across the plain to give them his support. He saw many of his friends lying dead, while others were seriously wounded and were being conveyed back to the city. There he also met his brother Paris, the handsome womanizer and seducer of Helen.

  “Where are all my friends?” Hector cried out in despair.

  Paris might have had an eye for the ladies, but he wasn’t a bad warrior. However, he was a simple fighter, not a shepherd of men like Hector, not a leader who could persuade those fleeing in terror to stop. He wasn’t capable of turning a defeat into a victory.

  Hector was more than capable. He led the way with his round shield and his crested helmet, which frightened the Achaeans just as much as it had frightened his little boy. The Trojans followed him, as one wave follows another in a stormy sea.

  The Achaeans stood firm, as the cliffs on the shoreline stand firm against the surging waters, particularly when they saw a golden eagle flying high on their right-hand side—a very good omen. Both sides let out loud warrior-like cries and yelled insults at one another. Ajax sneered at Hector for remaining in his chariot, while Hector called Ajax a miserable wretch whose fat would soon be feeding the dogs. The two men clashed, shield to shield, sword to sword, spear to spear, and the racket filled the skies above them.

  But inside the city, behind the well-built walls, the women wept as they received the wounded bodies of their men. Mothers and wives and sisters, and right in the middle of them all was Helen, the cause of this war.

  Who would want to change places with me? she thought. She was ready to cut her hair, mutilate her breasts, lacerate her lily-white thighs with a sharp knife if that would be of any use or make anyone feel better.

  She was going to lose either her son’s father or her lover, either Sparta or Troy, either her country or her lover’s country.

  Whoever won the war, Helen would still end up the loser.

  ________________

  Miss’s voice broke. Something in her throat or maybe in her heart made her fall silent. She slumped down onto the chair.

  “I don’t think I can do any more today,” she said.

  I ran off and fetched her a glass of water.

  She gave me a nod of thanks. Like the rest of us I stood there waiting for those few sips of water to take effect.

  Suddenly she gave a mocking smile.

  “I felt so sorry for Helen, but I’m fine now. You can go,” she said.

  On that day Dimitra and I didn’t head straight home. She had promised her mother that she would light the candles in the chapel outside the village, and asked if I wanted to go with her.

  “Do you really believe in God?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer. I waited for a little while, then repeated the question.

  Dimitra stopped and faced me,
and I saw that her eyes were shining, as if she were about to cry.

  “Sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She smiled and explained that it wasn’t me who was upsetting her, but God.

  I had nothing to say to that, and waited for her to go on. We were wandering along the desolate track leading to the chapel. The air was heavy with the aroma of the mastic trees, and we could hear the sound of running water.

  “I do believe in God. I just don’t believe he’s kind or wise or good in any way. I get angry with him. Why are the Germans here? What are they doing here? Why am I a girl? I hate being a girl. I’ll end up like my mother, with no education, married to someone who drinks and gets me pregnant twice a year.”

  “Things aren’t that bad, are they?”

  “Not yet.”

  We lit the candles quickly and went and sat on the bench outside the chapel. The whole village lay at our feet, with the fertile valley beyond. The world had a glow about it. Even the churchyard, filled with crosses and slender cypress trees, looked peaceful. Only the temporary airfield and the fuel depot were alien, but you could allow your eyes to slide over them, look without seeing them. They were there, but one day they would be gone. We knew that.

  Dimitra sat by my side breathing calmly, surrounded by a soft scent. Her coal-black hair was the only dark element in the landscape. She didn’t want to be a girl, but she was a girl, troubled by difficult questions.

  “Do you believe in God?” she asked.

  I’d thought about it. I’d been tormented by it. There was no avoiding the issue. Everyone in the village was a believer, or pretended to be. They all made the sign of the cross when they walked past a church. They all went to Sunday mass. But I wasn’t a believer.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Do you believe in anything at all?”

  That was easier.

  “Yes, I believe in you. I believe in Miss. In my parents. In people, to put it simply. Some are stupid, some are evil, but there’s nothing else to believe in.”