The Siege of Troy

by Theodor Kallifatides

  Cautiously I put my arm around her shoulders, and she didn’t push me away.

  “I like you,” I said. “Even if you are a girl.”

  She turned and stared at me in surprise. Then she laughed for a long time, until she had tears in her eyes.

  I couldn’t understand why she was laughing.

  IT HAD BECOME a habit now. Even those who had been reluctant or indifferent at first had capitulated. There weren’t many of us—only seven in total. We were turning into a kind of village within the village, which had already awarded us the nickname “the Faithful Seven.” Each morning we waited for Miss to continue with her story, and she didn’t disappoint us. She arrived at school well before us and was waiting with shining eyes, as if we were about to celebrate her name day.

  Were we all in love with her? I didn’t know. But I was, and I woke up every day terrified that she wouldn’t be there, that she would have gone back home. Seeing her was a miracle. I can’t put it any other way. It was a miracle.

  That day was no exception. She began to speak.

  ________________

  Old King Nestor, whose name lives on in several languages to denote the wisdom that comes with age, was sitting in his tent drinking wine with Machaon, the wounded physician, as the sound of the battle came closer and closer. What was going on? Were the Achaeans being driven out into the sea?

  “Stay here and rest. I will make sure you are given a warm bath; that will make you feel better,” Nestor said to his friend. Then he picked up his shield of shining bronze and a spear with a sharp point, and left the tent.

  Defeat was close. The Achaeans no longer had the strength to resist the Trojans, who were sure of victory. Nestor was considered to be the equal of the gods in terms of wisdom, but how could that wisdom help his countrymen now? Should he join the fray? He was old and weary. Any Trojan stripling could bring him down. He decided to seek out Agamemnon, the supreme commander. There was no guarantee that he knew what the situation was; he had been injured and forced to withdraw from the conflict. It transpired that Agamemnon wasn’t in fact resting; he was standing on the shore together with Diomedes and Odysseus—who were also injured—watching the battle with growing despair.

  This was all his fault. He should never have insulted Achilles.

  “Every Achaean must hate me,” he said. “Hector is on the point of setting our ships on fire and destroying us. What are we going to do? Tell me, you who are wiser than anyone.”

  “The battle is not yet decided,” Nestor replied. “The Achaeans are still holding their position. You three are wounded and cannot fight. We have to come up with something else.”

  Then Agamemnon explained his plan. It was very simple: to defend the ships at all costs, and to flee when night fell and the battle ceased.

  Under normal circumstances Odysseus was a man who weighed his words with great care. He also frequently meant something other than what he actually said, but on this occasion he forgot his skills and shouted at Agamemnon.

  “You idiot! You open your mouth and it’s like frogs jumping out of a stinking bog! You are not fit to command these men, who learned at their mother’s knee to endure the horrors of war. You are suggesting that we sneak away under the cover of night like rats leaving a sinking ship, forget that we came here to conquer the city of Troy with its wide streets and that we have suffered for almost ten years in order to achieve our goal. Do not say another word, because a king does not talk that way, a king who has received his scepter from the gods and who rules over all the Achaeans. Your plan is not only cowardly, it is also stupid. If the men out there realize that we’re thinking of running away, they will lose their lust for the fight, they will start thinking about their wives back home, about the freshly washed sheets on their beds.”

  The color drained from Nestor’s face. He was in no doubt that Agamemnon, who was known for his quick temper, would slay Odysseus on the spot. To his great surprise, the king stood motionless with his head bowed. He remained silent for a moment, then said, “I understand what you are saying, Odysseus, and your words have struck deep in my heart. You are right. I cannot order the Achaeans to flee. Neither they nor I would survive such shame. Have you any other ideas?”

  Diomedes, who was the youngest and therefore hadn’t spoken, raised his hand.

  “We are not in the best situation. We three are wounded, and the army is without a leader. I think we should show ourselves; even if we can’t fight, we can stand side by side with our men and give them courage.”

  This was a good suggestion, and they set off at once. Agamemnon led the way, thinking that Achilles would be satisfied now that his fellow Achaeans had either fallen in battle or were ready to retreat. They couldn’t manage without him. He’s sitting there drinking sweet wine from Lesbos, waiting for me to come crawling, begging for his help. I will not give him that pleasure.

  Agamemnon grew more and more angry, until his whole breast was filled with rage and he couldn’t breathe. He let out a yell, not as loudly as he could, but his entire body became a warlike roar.

  The Achaeans heard him, and hurled themselves into the fray with fresh energy.

  Even the Trojans within the city walls heard him. Helen recognized Agamemnon’s voice—after all, he was married to her sister. We are lost, she thought. When he roars like that, no one and nothing can stop him. That man sacrificed his beloved daughter for a favorable wind. He will not allow any of us to live.

  The Trojan army had the same thought, and continued to fight with the best motivation of all: the desire to avoid death.

  The conflict became even more violent, because the Achaeans had to save their ships in order to be able to sail home, and the Trojans had to destroy them in order to save their city, with its beautiful walls and wide streets. They fought on the shore, the waves crashing into them. The sound of metal clashing with metal rose to the skies as the men’s warlike cries grew louder and louder.

  Hector was at the forefront, and was the first to hurl his spear at Ajax, the son of Telamon. It caught the center of the shield and Ajax took a step back, but he was still capable of picking up a huge rock and throwing it at Hector with all his might. The boulder struck Hector on the neck, and he spun around a couple of times before falling to the ground. He dropped his spear, and his heavy armor prevented him from moving. Several Achaeans rushed forward to finish him off with their spears, but they failed. Hector was immediately surrounded by the foremost Trojan warriors; they protected him with their shields and stood firm until they managed to convey him to his chariot, drawn by his swift horses.

  When they reached the ford over the River Xanthos they stopped and bathed his body. He regained consciousness and dragged himself to his knees, but he vomited blood and collapsed again, with his eyes closed.

  And then the slaughter began in earnest. The Trojans lost heart when their great leader was no longer present, while the Achaeans on the other hand thanked the gods and gained fresh strength. The shore was filled with lifeless bodies and those who were seriously wounded. Ajax, the son of Telamon, moved forward with his sword and spear, mowing down all in his path, while Ajax, the son of Oileus, deployed his bow to kill even more of those trying to flee.

  It looked as if victory belonged to the Achaeans.

  But it wasn’t over yet.

  Hector’s comrades took him back to his home, where his wife, Andromache, was waiting with their little son in her arms. She’d seen worse. Hector was badly shaken, but he wasn’t seriously wounded. This was probably the first time he’d met an opponent who was his equal.

  “What is wrong with you, my dear husband? Will you be lying in your bed when the Achaeans storm our city? Will you watch as they force themselves on me and feed your son’s soft limbs to the stray dogs?”

  These were harsh words, and another man might have taken offense, but not Hector. He was pr
oud and happy to have such a wife.

  “Come and sit with me for a moment,” he said. “I’m already feeling better. I will return to the battle very soon.”

  Andromache sat down, took his hand, and placed it on their son’s cheek.

  That was all Hector needed.

  He had avoided death, and that must mean something. He got to his feet, put on his shining helmet, and he was Hector once more. He rejoined his men in the same chariot drawn by the same swift horses that had spirited him away. His wife’s words were more powerful than healing herbs and plants. Proud and splendid as a young stallion he raced across the plain. His men let out a dreadful war cry and followed him. The Achaeans couldn’t believe their eyes. They wondered if he was immortal, or if one of the gods was protecting him.

  If you start thinking like that, you’ve already lost. With great difficulty a small chosen group stayed put in close formation to hold their position against Hector while the rest retreated toward the ships. But there was no stopping him.

  “Let us burn their ships! I will personally kill anyone who hesitates and tries to run, and I will throw his body to the dogs!” Hector yelled, egging on his troops. They obeyed him, not only because they were afraid of him but because they were seized by the irresistible desire for revenge.

  They rushed forward like a single body determined to drive the Achaeans to the sea, they tore down the wall as playful children destroy a sandcastle. Nothing could stop them, and nothing could stop Hector, who drove his chariot through the lines of the Achaeans, causing great confusion and even greater destruction with his bronze-clad spears.

  The Achaeans gave way. They were pushed closer and closer to their hollow ships. Wise old Nestor raised his arms to heaven and called on the gods for help, but no help came from that direction.

  As the battle went on, Patroclus, Achilles’s closest friend, was sitting with the injured comrade he had met earlier. He washed his wounds and applied healing herbs. He was horrified when he saw the Trojans approaching the ships. This couldn’t be allowed to happen. He couldn’t hide away; he had to do something.

  “I’ll run over to Achilles and ask him to intervene. I know he’s very bitter because Agamemnon took Briseis away from him, and I know he hasn’t listened to anyone so far, but I’m his best friend. He might listen to me.”

  With these words Patroclus set off. Meanwhile, the battle intensified even more. The Achaeans succeeded in stopping the Trojans just a short distance away from the ships, but they couldn’t drive them back even though they were greater in number. For their part, the Trojans failed to break through. A cousin of Hector’s did manage to sneak past carrying a burning torch and was about to set one of the ships on fire, but Ajax, son of Telamon, spotted him and plunged his sword into the young man’s breast. The torch fell from his hand and he went down. Hector saw it happen and threw his shining spear at Ajax, but missed. Instead the man next to Ajax was hit just below the ear and dropped dead on the fine sand. And so the battle continued. Contemptuous of death, the Trojans rushed toward the ships with burning torches in their hands, falling victim to the Achaeans’ swords and spears, and above all to the arrows that rained down on them.

  Both sides lost many good men. Neither was prepared to yield. Anyone looking at the field of battle from a distance might have thought that the two armies were dancing with each other. At one moment Hector and his men were leading the dance, at the next Ajax and his men. Back and forth, like the waves. It might even have looked beautiful. But only from a great distance.

  ________________

  At that point Miss stopped for the day. She looked tired, but at the same time more beautiful than ever. There was a glow about her that I hadn’t seen before. A fire was burning within her, and Dimitra saw it too.

  “She’s in love,” she said.

  A fierce hope made my heart leap, but only for a second. I asked Dimitra how she could possibly know that, but she answered evasively, assuring me that everyone knew. I persisted and eventually she admitted that she’d heard her mother say so.

  “Did she say who with?” I asked.

  “No.” Dimitra suddenly felt guilty for passing on gossip and refused to discuss the matter any further.

  We parted at the mulberry tree without saying another word.

  “What’s the matter with you?” was the first thing my mother said when I got home. She always noticed everything about me. If a single strand of hair was missing from my head, she would notice. I didn’t want to lie, so I didn’t answer. I just went straight to my room, lay down on the bed, and thought about Miss. About the way her neck rose from her collar like a violet, and about her hands, which she moved constantly. Who kissed that lovely neck? Whom did she caress with those hands?

  That’s what I thought, and tears poured down my cheeks.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING I waited for Dimitra beneath the mulberry tree. The branches were heavy with blossoms, and I could see there would be lots of berries. It was Dimitra’s great-grandfather who had planted the tree, for the wide, cool shade it would one day provide. I would also like to create something like that. Something that will provide wide, cool shade for many years to come.

  There was no sign of Dimitra, and I was lost in daydreams when she jumped on me from behind and covered my eyes with her hands, which smelled of lye.

  That’s how easy it is to cheer someone up.

  I pulled one of her hands to my mouth and bit her palm.

  “Don’t tickle me,” she said. Although she seemed to like it.

  Miss was already in position.

  ________________

  As I said yesterday, Patroclus couldn’t just sit and watch while his countrymen fought for their lives. He ran across the plain that the Achaeans had been forced to leave in order to defend their ships. He saw many of his friends and comrades lying dead—one with a spear in his breast, another with an arrow in his neck, others who had been decapitated or had their arms and legs chopped off. Some were still bleeding from mortal wounds. A few had still not given up but writhed in torment, begging for help, calling out to him as he hurried past, but there was nothing he could do for them—except in one case. He could not abandon his childhood friend Arion, lying there robbed of his armor, naked as a worm. His belly was open, his intestines hanging out, wriggling like snakes.

  This wasn’t the right moment to recall the sunny days of youth, or Arion’s laughter; there was no time, yet that was exactly what was going through Patroclus’s mind. He remembered their wrestling matches, which were in fact acts of love, their games in the rushing waters of the river.

  “Help me,” Arion groaned, “help me!” Patroclus drew his short close-combat sword and plunged it into his dying friend’s heart.

  “My greetings to Achilles.” Those were Arion’s last words, and they broke Patroclus. By the time he reached Achilles, the tears were pouring down his cheeks like a spring bursting forth from the rocks.

  Achilles was surprised.

  “Why are you crying like a little girl who wants to be carried, Patroclus? Tell me what’s going on, and keep nothing from me.”

  So Patroclus came straight out and told him that the Achaeans were on the brink of defeat, and that many of their foremost warriors were either dead or wounded.

  “You have to help them. I know you’re angry, and I hope I will never feel such rage in my heart, but you cannot be so implacable. You cannot allow the Achaeans to go under. And if you feel unable to join the battle, if you are prevented by a sacred oath or prophecy, then let me help them. Let me wear your armor. The Trojans might think that I am you, and be afraid. And let me take a group of our men, the Myrmidons, who love a fight. They are rested, while our opponents must be very weary by now.”

  Poor Patroclus! He had no idea what he was asking, nor did Achilles, who was not prevented from joining the battle by any oath or proph
ecy. He was still suffering from the insult Agamemnon had delivered to him by taking away Briseis, whom Achilles loved.

  He treated me like a worthless beggar!

  That was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. He missed Briseis. He took other women to his bed, but none of them could help him to do what he needed the most: to forget who he was and the fate that awaited him. Many slaves found themselves in his arms; he belonged only in Briseis’s arms, but she was gone. She was in Agamemnon’s tent, spending her nights in Agamemnon’s bed.

  Achilles didn’t mention any of this; he focused on the insult rather than the fact that he was missing Briseis. However, he didn’t want to be petty.

  “I can’t carry this bitterness in my heart forever. I had intended to wait until the Trojans were threatening my ships, but now that they are upon the Achaeans like a dark cloud and our countrymen have the foaming waves at their backs, now that the whole of Troy has gathered at the city walls to rejoice, I am troubled. They would have fled at the mere sight of my helmet. Instead they are preparing to burn our ships and rob our countrymen of their means of escape. Take my armor and the Myrmidons. Drive the Trojans away from the ships, but do no more. The Achaeans must not believe that they can succeed without me. Do not attempt to storm the city. You and I will do that together. We two will open proud Troy’s girdle.”

  As the two friends talked, Ajax was fighting a short distance away, utterly exhausted. Sweat poured down beneath his helmet, which had already been struck several times by arrows and spears and axes. His ears were filled with a roaring sound, and he could no longer see properly. His left arm was stiff from holding his shield, and he felt as if he would never be able to move it again. It was impossible to get enough air into his lungs, yet he refused to give ground. He held the Trojans at bay with his long spear in spite of their numbers, in spite of the fact that they were skillful and attacked him like angry wasps squabbling over freshly pressed grape must.