With these words he thrust his spear at Menelaus’s shield, but the tip simply glanced off. Menelaus’s spear, however, pierced Euphorbus’s throat and went right through his neck. He collapsed. His curly hair, held in place with threads of gold and silver, made him resemble an olive sapling in blossom, brought down by a storm.
Menelaus began to strip him of his armor, and he still looked so fierce that no Trojan dared to go near him. But not for long; in the distance Hector could be seen, approaching fast in his chariot. His crested helmet shone in the multicolored afternoon light, and his horses seemed to fly across the plain.
The sight made Menelaus’s heart beat faster. He knew he couldn’t take on Hector alone; he ought to flee, but he couldn’t leave the dead man. What would his countrymen say? That Menelaus, King of Sparta, had run away like a feeble coward. He couldn’t live with that.
Better to die with his honor intact than to live like a poltroon. Life is precious and he didn’t want to die, but he stood his ground until the Trojans forced him to take a few steps back. He caught sight of Ajax, son of Telamon.
“Come here, Ajax, my old friend and brother-in-arms. We must defend Patroclus. We must carry his body to Achilles.”
Ajax didn’t need asking twice. He immediately ran to join Menelaus, carrying his long spear before him.
Hector had stripped Patroclus of his armor and was dragging the blood-drenched corpse behind him with the intention of severing the head and throwing it to the dogs, but when he saw Ajax he decided to make do with the armor. He dropped the body and returned to his chariot, which was being guarded by his own troops.
This did not go unnoticed by Glaucus, chief of the Lycians and an ally of Troy. He had already lost many men, including the peerless Sarpedon, whose desecrated body had been borne away by cheering Achaeans.
“What kind of man are you, Hector?” he shouted. “You look good, but in the field of battle you are nothing. You allowed your friend Sarpedon to end up in the hands of the Achaeans, you run away and leave us to defend your city, which is not our city. We are sacrificing ourselves for nothing. We are going home. If you had carried Patroclus to the square in Troy, we could have exchanged him for Sarpedon, but you dare not take on Ajax man to man. He is stronger than you, and that’s all there is to it.”
Hector swallowed his fury at this insult and answered calmly.
“How can you be so foolish, Glaucus? I am not afraid of the fight, but I have something else in mind. Come with me—together we will teach the Achaeans a lesson.”
He exhorted his men to mount a fresh attack while he himself donned Achilles’s armor, which Patroclus had been wearing. It was a perfect fit, as if it had been made for him. At the same time he was seized by sudden doubts. What if his own men thought he was Achilles? His own wife wouldn’t recognize him right now. And yet he felt invincible in this new garb, his muscles swelling to fill every corner. His whole body felt bigger, as a sudden cloudburst turns a small stream into a raging torrent.
He gathered all his allies and neighbors and gave a short speech.
“It is not because I wanted your company that I asked you to leave your homes, but because I needed your help to defend the wives and children of Troy against the fierce Achaean hordes. That is why the city gave you generous gifts and provisions. In war one simple law applies: You live or die. Ajax, who is defending Patroclus’s corpse, is not an easy man to take on, but whoever makes him yield and hand over the body to us will receive my helmet and my shield, and will share my glory. Let us go and do what must be done.”
It was hard not to be inspired by Hector’s words and by the sight of him in that magnificent armor, which made him look like the god of war. They began to move as one toward Ajax, who for the first time feared for his life and pleaded with Menelaus to call for reinforcements.
The fair-haired King of Sparta took a deep breath and yelled as loudly as he could: “Friends and comrades, all of you who have shared bread and wine with me, come and help so that Patroclus’s body will not become a plaything for the dogs of Troy.”
Ajax, the cruel son of Oileus, was the first to step up, followed by the others. Who can remember all those names?
The Trojans, led by Hector, launched a massive attack on the wall of shields that the Achaeans had erected around Patroclus. It sounded like the mighty waves pounding against the cliffs, the forward impetus every bit as strong as the withdrawal. First the Achaeans were pushed back a little way, but without any losses, and with the encouragement of Ajax, son of Telamon, they then succeeded in forcing the Trojans back. However, one of the Trojans had somehow fastened a leather strap around Patroclus’s left ankle and tried to drag the corpse away.
Ajax saw what was happening and took immediate action. He brought his spear down on the man’s head, splitting both helmet and skull in two like a ripe watermelon. The brains spilled out, as gray as ash. The man went down and life left him. He would never repay the pains his parents had taken in his upbringing.
And so they continued to slay and be slain. Hector hurled his spear at Ajax and missed, but his throw was not in vain. The weapon buried itself in the man behind Ajax, and he fell to the ground with his armor clanking.
It was a hot day with not a single cloud in the sky, except above that section of the plain where the battle for Patroclus’s body was being played out. A short distance away beneath the burning sun the armies fought without interruption. Perspiration poured from beneath their helmets, spears slipped in their sweaty hands, weariness made their limbs feel numb, but they battled on.
Thanks to mighty Ajax the Achaeans gained the upper hand. He seemed to be unstoppable, and the men fled like terrified dogs before a crazed wild boar. Hector saw many of his relatives and friends mown down. This couldn’t go on; perhaps it was time to bring the conflict to an end and return home, behind the well-built walls of Troy.
His friend Aeneas didn’t agree. He was not a son of Troy; he had come to the city with his young son as a refugee after Achilles had laid waste to his own city and wounded him. He was not afraid of losing his life, and couldn’t bear the thought of his boy ending up as the slave of some Achaean chief. To put it briefly, retreat was not an option as far as he was concerned.
“Hector, how shameful would it be to leave the field of battle conquered more by our own cowardice than by these brave Achaeans? Come, let us attack them before they manage to take Patroclus away!”
So spoke Aeneas, and Hector took note. If anyone was his equal, if anyone could match him in strength, skill, and courage, it was this refugee who was already facing the Achaeans, his spear at the ready.
Hector ordered a fresh attack and the battle raged on. Yet more men were wounded or killed, but who can remember their names? Over and over again the Trojans attacked the circle of Achaeans who had built a wall of shields around Patroclus. They did not retaliate, they simply stood there like a single bronze-plated body.
The dark cloud above them grew even darker, as if some god wanted to mark them out from everyone else. They were a small number of men, all of whom knew one another. They were beloved childhood friends or relatives.
It was a bitter and unrelenting struggle. The men were sweaty and covered in dust, bone-weary, but not one of them gave way. They were like a group of farmers pulling at a bull’s hide drenched in olive oil in order to stretch it; each person pulls in his own direction until the oil is absorbed and the hide is ready. The Trojans fought to take Patroclus to their city, while the Achaeans were determined to return him to his ship. Neither side was prepared to cede, and so they continued to thrust at one another with their spears echoing against their shields, this copper sky.
There was only one man who did not participate in the tumult. Automedon, Patroclus’s charioteer, remained a short distance away comforting the horses, who were inconsolable at the death of their master. They refused to move one m
ore step, and stood by the ornate chariot with their heads drooping. They wept hot tears and their manes trailed on the blood-soaked ground. Automedon tried both threats and kind, gentle words, but to no avail. Suddenly something came over them; they tossed their heads and raced toward the battle. Automedon rejoiced and attacked the Trojans as a vulture attacks a flock of geese. However, he was unable to cause significant damage, because it was impossible to steer the chariot and to wield his spear or his sword at the same time. Eventually young fleet-footed Alcimedon leaped up onto the chariot from behind and took over the reins and the whip.
Hector had few weaknesses, but one of them was his love for beautiful horses, and these two were the swiftest and finest he had ever seen. They belonged to Achilles, and he wanted them. He was no more vain than anyone else, but his mind played tricks on him. He saw images of the citizens of Troy cheering as he rode in through the gates in Achilles’s chariot, drawn by these two horses. Andromache would weep with joy over her husband. His son would inherit his immortal glory. He turned to Aeneas.
“Such horses should not be driven by bungling idiots. Let us take them,” he said. Aeneas was more than willing to help, and two of their men joined in. Shields and spears at the ready, they ran toward the chariot, certain that they would meet little resistance.
They were mistaken. Automedon saw them coming, and although it would be wrong to say that he wasn’t afraid, he was a man of courage. He had driven these horses for Achilles for many years. They had laid waste to armies and cities together, abducted girls, caused many parents to shed bitter tears over sons and daughters. Patroclus was not Achilles, but he was his best friend. Automedon was incapable of simply driving away; if he did that, his heart would break. He jumped down from the chariot and asked Alcimedon to stay close, so close that he could feel the horses’ breath on the back of his neck as he waited, weighing the sharp spear in his hand. When Hector and his comrades came close enough, Automedon threw his spear with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, driving the weapon into the nearest warrior’s belly. Just as when the farmer strikes the sinews behind the horns of an ox with a sharp ax, the man continued to move forward before falling on his back, the fatal spear swaying in his entrails as it followed the rhythm of his failing heart.
Hector also threw his spear, but Automedon jumped to the side and the point buried itself in the ground, where it quivered for some time.
Meanwhile more Achaeans joined the fray. Hector and Aeneas were heavily outnumbered and drew back.
Automedon stripped the armor from the dead man and felt as if he had avenged the death of Patroclus. It was a relief. He grabbed his spear, covering his hands with blood. He climbed back into the chariot to continue the tear-sodden battle, which became even more violent.
Fair-haired Menelaus was now among the Achaeans, and he appeared to have discovered fresh reserves of energy. His reputation as a warrior was not the best. This was unjust, and was more to do with the fact that Helen had left him. “A real woman does not leave a real man,” the men muttered among themselves, and Menelaus was well aware of their thoughts. He also knew that Achilles would never forgive him if he allowed Patroclus’s body to be defiled by the dogs of Troy beneath the beautiful walls of the city, and so he entered the fight with vigor, killing a friend and drinking partner of Hector’s. He also managed to drag the dead body over to the Achaean side.
Hector felt great pain when he saw his friend fall to Menelaus’s spear, and his agony increased as he watched the bloody body being hauled along the ground like a dead pig. The cloud above them suddenly darkened even more and a storm broke out. Lightning flashed across the low sky, terrifying the Achaeans, who interpreted this as a sign that the gods were against them. A brief hesitation was enough to give Hector and his men the advantage.
The Achaeans fled. It is not necessary to give an order in such a situation. Ajax and Menelaus could see what was happening. The Trojans’ spears always hit their mark, while the Achaeans kept missing.
“We have to make a decision,” Ajax said. “Do we attempt to take Patroclus’s body with us, or do we make sure that we ourselves return safely to our ships, where our comrades are anxiously waiting? Whatever happens, we cannot continue to oppose Hector, who seems to have the gods on his side. Soon we will not be able to see anything. I would at least like to die in daylight.”
As mighty Ajax lamented in this way there came a sudden gust of wind, almost like a sharp slap across the face. The sky cleared and the Achaeans’ perilous situation became even more evident.
There was only one man who could save them. This man, however, this godlike warrior, was sulking like a three-year-old in his tent. He didn’t know that his beloved friend Patroclus had been killed, and that his naked body would soon be tossed to the dogs of Troy.
Who was swift enough to warn him in time?
The best person for this errand was Antilochus, the son of wise old Nestor, who was renowned for being fleet of foot. Was he still alive? He was discovered fighting nearby, and wept when he heard that Patroclus was dead.
However, even if Achilles agreed to come to the aid of his countrymen, he wouldn’t be able to do so right away—his armor was gone.
The most sensible option would be to withdraw and take their dead comrade with them. Menelaus and another man lifted the body and set off. The Trojans spotted them and attacked with warlike cries. Ajax and his men blocked their path.
“We never give up!” Ajax shouted. “We have lived with that reputation, and we will die with it.” However, the combined forces of Hector and Aeneas proved too much. The troops around Ajax thinned out, many Achaeans died and others fled. Ajax fought on, and the two men carrying Patroclus’s corpse plodded on toward their hollow ships.
________________
Miss let out a long breath.
“I feel as if hairs are starting to grow on my tongue,” she said. In other words, she couldn’t go on any longer. Dimitra fetched her a glass of water.
It was time to go home for dinner. I was tired after the previous day’s football match, and Dimitra was hoarse from cheering on the village team. She was also as happy as a lark for no apparent reason.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you in love?” I asked. She laughed away my question, but at the same time her cheeks flushed bright red.
The square was busy. The mayor, the captain, and another officer we hadn’t seen before were sitting outside the best café, guarded by two heavily armed soldiers. The three men were drinking ouzo and the captain was behaving deferentially toward the guest, who was not only older but clearly outranked him, and wore a large Iron Cross on his chest.
Dimitra’s father saw us and beckoned us over to his table. For once he wasn’t boozing but was cooling himself down with “a U-boat”—a lump of mastic resin in a glass of water. He knew what was going on: The guest was a major and was just passing through. Nothing to worry about.
We sat with him for a while. Miss passed by, setting off on one of her long walks in her heavy boots, with a military water bottle looped over her shoulder.
“She looks like a partisan,” Dimitra’s father muttered. That was a weird thing to say, but he had a point. There was something decisive about her.
Later on Dimitra’s father ordered an ouzo, because he claimed that staying sober was starting to make him feel drunk.
Eventually the important guest got to his feet, shook hands with the mayor, and halfheartedly returned the captain’s razor-sharp salute. He climbed into the passenger seat of a black open-topped Mercedes and sat there, straight-backed, as a guard on a motorcycle led the way, with another following behind. The small convoy was heading for the medieval town of Monemvasia, or Malvoisie as the French chevaliers dubbed it. He would spend the night there in one of the impressive fortresses, out of reach of the partisans, who had become increasingly active of late. He was also looking forward to din
ner on the terrace high above the sea; the local delicacy was a fish known a barbouni, the striped red mullet. Pythagoras and his disciples did not eat this particular fish; they regarded it as unclean, because it was a bottom-feeder, finding its food on the seabed, which meant it inevitably consumed people who had drowned. The modern Greeks, however, loved its delicate aroma and soft flesh. So did the German major, and his mouth was already watering.
Then he was gone. The people in the square exhaled, and started gossiping as usual.
It was a mild evening, carrying the promise of a beautiful morning to come.
IT WAS INDEED a beautiful morning as Dimitra and I walked to school. Miss was waiting for us as always, and greeted each arrival with a theatrical bow. Soon we were all assembled, and she continued the story of a war that blind Homer had never seen, yet described more vividly than those who had been there.
________________
Achilles didn’t know that Patroclus was dead, but he began to worry when he saw the Achaeans deserting the field of battle, with Hector and his men at their heels. He looked anxiously for his friend, and his unease grew when he couldn’t see any sign of him.
He sent up a silent prayer as he sat before the ships with their curved prows and sterns: May the gods protect him, let not the Trojans rob him of the light of day.
As soon as he saw Antilochus approaching with tears in his eyes, he knew that the worst had happened.
His dearest friend was dead.
The sun was so strong that its heat made a sound, like the muted vibration of cicadas far away. Suddenly Achilles couldn’t see; he took the ashes from the previous night’s fire and scattered them over his head. Tears poured down his contorted face. He threw himself on the ground, roaring in pain and pulling at his hair. His slaves, the poor girls he had snatched from their homes, ran over and tried to comfort him. Antilochus grasped his hands to prevent him from tearing at his own flesh.
The Siege of Troy Page 9