It was clear that Ajax wouldn’t be able to resist forever, particularly when Hector struck at his spear with his heavy sword, leaving Ajax with nothing more than a useless wooden shaft. He had no choice but to withdraw as quickly as possible. At that point several Trojans rushed past with burning torches in their hands and hurled them at Ajax’s ship, while others pushed their torches beneath it. The whole vessel was ablaze in seconds, the fire fed by the wind blowing in off the sea. Tall flames shot up like sails being hoisted.
Achilles saw what had happened. Ajax was his friend and comrade-in-arms. He told Patroclus to get ready, which he did as quickly as possible. He put on the silver greaves, then the breastplate that shone like the stars in the sky. Over his shoulder he hung the sword; he picked up the sturdy shield and placed the crested helmet on his head. Finally he chose two spears that sat well in his hand, but he did not take Achilles’s spear, because he couldn’t lift it.
Meanwhile Achilles’s charioteer, a steadfast and courageous companion, had harnessed the two swift horses Xanthos and Balios, with the even swifter Pedasus in a side trace in case he should be needed.
Achilles had sailed to Troy with fifty ships, each one carrying fifty carefully selected warriors who were ready to follow him to their last breath. They were loyal, but they were not afraid to speak their minds. They had already criticized him for keeping them from the fray.
“Your mother must have nursed you with bile instead of milk, since you are so bitter just for the sake of some girl,” a bearded giant had said to his face.
Achilles reminded them of their harsh words as he exhorted them to join the battle.
“The time has come to show you are capable of action too! The Trojans are here—they are waiting for you!”
The men cheered, then adopted their usual close formation, shoulder to shoulder. A newly fledged robin would barely have been able to fly between their lines. Patroclus and the charioteer took their place at the front; this was the most dangerous, the most vulnerable, and therefore the most honorable position.
Achilles looked at his friend in his borrowed armor. That could have been me, he thought, sending up a silent prayer to the gods. Grant Patroclus your protection, give him glory on the battlefield and let him return alive and uninjured. Then he stood at the entrance to his tent, which was in an elevated spot and provided an excellent viewing point.
The Myrmidons were an extraordinary race. As the name suggests, they originated from ants. Almighty Zeus had turned them into humans as companions for an illegitimate son, banished to a desert island by his wife, Hera. They also fought like ants, so close together that one man’s shield also covered his neighbor’s exposed throwing arm, the favorite target of bowmen. They had never lost a battle, and with Achilles at their head they were feared by everyone. The sight of the Myrmidons approaching with their short, rapid steps, their brown shields forming a carapace, was something few could contemplate without quaking in fear.
Patroclus led the way, exhorting them to honor their beloved commander who was not with them today, to win him yet another shining victory and to save the Achaeans from destruction. They marched forward like a dark cloud casting its vast shadow over a field of corn.
The Trojans were not lacking in bravery, even if they were shaken by the sudden appearance of Achilles—who was not Achilles—at the forefront of the Myrmidons.
This is how things were done in those days. First of all the commanders fought in single combat, one man against the other, without the intervention of anyone else. Only when one of them had fallen did the battle for his body and armor begin between the two opposing armies. Dying in the midst of the conflict was unfortunate, but being robbed of one’s armor meant eternal humiliation.
And that’s exactly what happened on this occasion. The two leaders drove at each other in their chariots. Patroclus hurled his spear first and struck his opponent on the shoulder, causing him to crash to the ground, whimpering. The Trojans scattered, and Patroclus was able to chase them away from the ship, giving his own men the opportunity to put out the fire. This was a great relief, just as when the wind blows away the thick morning mist and the world becomes visible once more, with its rivers and mountains and valleys.
The respite was short-lived, because the Trojans didn’t turn and flee but fought for every yard they were driven back from the ships. However, the fortunes of war had changed. It seemed as if the Achaeans couldn’t miss. Their spears hit necks, breasts, shoulders, stomachs. Everywhere. But it wasn’t over yet. Cruel Ajax, the son of Oileus, captured a wounded Trojan chief. He should have helped him, according to good practice in war, but instead he killed his prisoner with a single blow of his sword to the throat.
Patroclus felled the men who stood in his way as an experienced lumberjack fells tall pines and small junipers with ease. Luck was on his side. But as I said, it wasn’t over yet.
________________
At that moment the sirens began to sound, and seconds later the first bomb exploded very close to our school. Two German planes took off to join the fray. We knew the pilots: One was called Wolfgang, the other Erich. Wolfgang was blond and handsome, and all the girls in the village stole glances at him when they thought no one was looking. Erich was short and dark. He was more like the local men, and the girls ignored him completely.
“Run to the cave,” Miss shouted, and we did as we were told, but she stayed where she was, with her arms folded.
“Come on, Miss!” Dimitra shouted.
“I’ll follow you in a minute,” she replied.
But she didn’t come.
The raid lasted only a few minutes. The British bomber dropped its deadly cargo at random, then sped away, protected by three fighter planes that kept Wolfgang and Erich at bay.
The sky was free once more, and we left the cave. Wolfgang and Erich were returning to the airfield. They flew low over us and waved. We waved back. However strange it sounds, we were on their side. They were our boys, defending our village. But Miss didn’t wave. She was still standing there with her arms folded. She was smiling.
We settled down and she went on with her story.
________________
Hector realized that his men couldn’t go on, and was about to give the order for everyone to withdraw behind the well-built walls of Troy when the Trojans received help from an unexpected quarter. Sarpedon, king of the neighboring country of Lycia, suddenly appeared; he was widely renowned for his skill with the chariot.
However, there was no stopping Patroclus. He continued to spread death all around him, including among Sarpedon’s men, who fled even though their leader was desperately urging them to stand and fight. In order to give them courage, Sarpedon decided to take on the man who was causing such damage.
He leaped from his chariot, and Patroclus did the same. They were like two vultures, ready to tear each other to pieces with their beaks and talons.
Sarpedon threw first and missed Patroclus, but his spear struck the beautiful horse Pedasus, and the animal dropped to the ground, whinnying in agony. Sarpedon threw his second spear but missed again. The two men were very close now, both roaring, bodies drenched in sweat. Patroclus did not miss. His spear found its mark in Sarpedon’s belly, close to his heart, and the king went down with a crash like a mighty oak. He continued to defend himself furiously against the Achaeans, who were determined to kill him and take his armor. At the same time he called to his allies for help.
“Do not let them take my body and my armor! If you do, it will be a source of shame and sorrow for all time.”
He should have saved what little strength he had left. Death came down over his eyes as he spoke. Patroclus placed his foot on the king’s broad chest and pulled out his spear, bringing the heart with it. He literally drew the life out of unfortunate Sarpedon, who would never return home to his fertile fields and gardens.
The battle could have ended there. It didn’t. One of Sarpedon’s men galloped away to speak to Hector.
“Do not allow the Myrmidons to defile my king’s body! Our shame is great, our sorrow greater, but your honor too will be forever stained if you allow an ally to be treated in this way, a man who sacrificed his life for you even though he came from another land.”
His words filled the Trojans with horror; they would never forgive themselves if they didn’t take action. Hector immediately got to his feet to lead the counterattack, in spite of the fact that he was utterly exhausted.
It was still only early afternoon, but at that moment a dark cloud came over from Africa, and the drops of rain that fell were as red as blood.
The fighting grew even more savage and more difficult in the gathering gloom. It wasn’t easy to distinguish between friend and enemy, and in the middle of it all lay Sarpedon’s lifeless body, pierced with spears and arrows, covered in blood and dust. Patroclus had already taken his armor, and both the Trojans and the Achaeans swarmed around the corpse like buzzing flies. The Trojans briefly gained the upper hand. They managed to carry Sarpedon a short distance away from the conflict, they bathed the body in the waters of the river, anointed it with wine and scented oils, and buried it.
Once that was done they were satisfied, and lost their desire to go on fighting. Patroclus, on the other hand, felt invincible in Achilles’s armor. Could it be his destiny to take Troy? To lead the Achaeans through the gates, put an end to the war once and for all? It was a dizzying thought, and it made him forget his promise to Achilles that he would not try to conquer the city even if it lay wide open to him, like his mother’s arms. He even forgot that he wasn’t Achilles, and ordered his charioteer to pursue the Trojans. They raced to the wall and Patroclus attempted to scale it, but he slipped; his sweaty hands found no purchase. Three times he tried and failed. He withdrew out of range of the bowmen.
Meanwhile Hector was standing at the Gate of the Shadows, unable to decide on the wisest course of action. Should he go back into the city with all his men or risk one last counterattack? He thought about his wife and son. Shutting the gates of Troy would be the beginning of the end. The Achaeans would poison the water, the Trojans would run out of food, they would die a slow, agonizing death without the opportunity to fight.
There was only one option. He must return to the field of battle, but this time he would focus on one man, the man who had slain so many of his comrades, the man who was trying to take Troy alone. Whoever he was. Because the rumor had spread: It was not in fact Achilles but his beloved friend.
The decision made, Hector exhorted his troops to take up the fight once more, while he drove his chariot straight at Patroclus, who climbed down from his own chariot with his spear in his left hand, a sharp stone in his right. He threw the stone with all his might, striking Hector’s charioteer between the eyes and shattering his brow bone. He fell from the chariot like a diver plunging into the sea.
Patroclus couldn’t help mocking him, drunk with his own strength. He shouted, “You poor wretch—but what an acrobat you were!” He moved forward to plunder the dead man’s armor, and Hector jumped down from his chariot and ran to the lifeless body. They stood on either side of the corpse like two hungry lions. Hector seized the head, Patroclus the feet, each determined not to let go.
Trojans and Achaeans soon gathered around them. The struggle was bitter and intense, with the charioteer lying there motionless, having forgotten everything about the art of driving a chariot. Man against man, sword against sword, spear against spear. Neither side was prepared to yield, and neither side gained the upper hand until late in the afternoon when the Trojans, who were far fewer in number, found themselves unable to go on. Even the strongest oxen must be released from the yoke when that time comes. The Achaeans dragged the corpse away and stripped it of its armor.
Once again Patroclus had the opportunity to remember his promise to Achilles; there was still time to return to his ship. But he kept on fighting, until his spear was shattered, a stone sent his helmet spinning to the ground, and he no longer had the strength to hold up his shield.
The Trojan warrior Euphorbus, known for his skill with the spear and for his prowess as a runner, immediately rushed forward and plunged his sharp weapon between Patroclus’s shoulder blades, although this did not kill him. Hector drove his spear into Patroclus’s stomach, twisting it around and enjoying the sight of the life draining from the man who had been responsible for so many deaths.
Hector couldn’t resist speaking his mind.
“Patroclus, you dreamed of sacking Troy, of robbing its women of their freedom and taking them to your own country as slaves. You thought you could defeat me, but now you will feed the vultures and hyenas.”
Patroclus sacrificed his last breath to respond.
“It will not be long until you yourself are dead, Hector,” he said as death closed his eyes.
________________
“That’s enough for now,” Miss said. “Tomorrow is another day.”
I didn’t walk home with Dimitra. She stayed behind, talking to a couple of friends, and I was going to play football. The village versus the Germans. It had become a tradition. That was the greatest mystery of all. One moment they were racketing around like evil demons, burning villages, torturing and executing people; the next they were playing football as if nothing had happened.
But would the match take place today, after the British bombs? The German captain wasn’t easily scared. He was acting as referee, but the mayor also wanted us to play.
“Life must go on,” he said.
And life went on.
We too were a mystery in my eyes. How could we? How could I? Why didn’t I hate them wholeheartedly, why was I pleased when they praised my fair hair or my skillful left foot?
Is the need to love greater than the need to hate?
I had no one to talk to about such matters. Or maybe I did—Miss. One fine day she and I would sit down and talk about everything, but that day had not yet come.
As usual plenty of people turned up to watch the match. Miss was there along with her landlady, an elderly woman who was good at dealing with everything from cuts and bruises to broken bones. The Germans were crazy about her herbal remedies.
Needless to say the village was soundly beaten: 7–1. The German attack, led by Wolfgang and Erich, made mincemeat of our defense.
I was still happy. I had scored our only goal thanks to a lucky free kick from the twenty-yard line. The ball was heading straight for the goalie’s arms when a sudden gust of wind made it change direction and land in the back of the net.
Afterward Wolfgang went over to the landlady and pointed to the back of his thigh. Miss looked on with interest, although she pretended not to.
Wolfgang went home with them to be treated. He was limping slightly, and Miss did her best to support him.
And the mystery grew: Is the need to love greater than the need to hate?
DIMITRA WAS WAITING FOR ME beneath the mulberry tree the next morning. This was unexpected; I was normally the one waiting for her. Ever since we were little. “Are you coming?” I would ask her. “Soon,” she would reply, but it was never “soon,” it was always much later. I was used to waiting for her. It was almost enjoyable. It gave my little life a certain meaning. Waiting for Dimitra, that’s what I could call the story of my childhood.
“You were good,” she said, “but Wolfgang’s better.”
Why did she have to bring him up?
“Yes, he is,” I said sourly.
She noticed and gave me a push.
“Only joking.”
I didn’t really care. Wolfgang was better. My dream wasn’t to be a footballer. I wanted to be like my father, or Miss. Become a teacher, read lots of books, maybe write one. That’s what I thought, but I didn’t say anything. It
didn’t matter. Having a dream wasn’t part of the reality of life in my village. In fact it was downright dangerous. So I kept quiet. My mother used to say that I was “taken by the winds” when I sat opposite her in silence. She always wanted to know what I was thinking about.
I had no intention of telling Dimitra about my dreams either—the “fine eel” as my grandfather called her. Then all of a sudden she said, “I want to marry a poet, like Homer.”
“But he was blind,” I said.
She shrugged.
“So much the better.”
When we arrived at school, Miss was standing by the classroom door, her eyes shining.
________________
Fair-haired King Menelaus saw that Patroclus had fallen. The Trojans must be stopped at all costs from desecrating his body and taking his armor. Lowing like a cow determined to protect her calf, he rushed forward and positioned himself next to the dead man, holding his round shield over him. Everyone knew Menelaus was not to be trifled with, and his spear held off the Trojans. All except for one: Euphorbus, who had struck the blow that ultimately led to Patroclus’s death.
“Step aside, Menelaus! Patroclus is dead, and I was the first to strike him. No one else even got close. Leave his body and his armor to me; I am owed that honor. Otherwise I will have to kill you as well.”
Menelaus sighed.
“You arrogant wretch! Your brother was the same—he called me the most pathetic warrior of them all, which was why he didn’t return home to his young wife. Not on his own two feet, at least. The same fate awaits you if you dare to challenge me. Listen to what I say and return to your men. Only fools learn too late.”
The reminder of his brother’s death failed to bring Euphorbus to his senses—quite the reverse, in fact.
“You will pay for his death, Menelaus. You will pay for making his young bride a widow who has to lie alone in her newly built apartments, and for bringing my parents such unbearable sorrow. Perhaps I will be able to provide some consolation when I lay your head and your armor at their feet. Enough talking. Let us see who will live and who will die.”
The Siege of Troy Page 8