Helen was an Achaean, of course; her sister was married to their commander, powerful Agamemnon. Two sisters, Clytemnestra and Helen, were married to two brothers, both great kings: Agamemnon in Mycenae with its impregnable acropolis, and Menelaus in Sparta, whose army had never been defeated.
Helen had humiliated them by running away with handsome Paris. If she had remained in Sparta they would have stoned her to death, or simply separated her head from her body if they wished to be merciful. There was a kind of shame that only blood could wash away, in their opinion. The Trojans were less harsh. Women enjoyed the same freedom as men. Andromache, Hector’s wife, would often reassure her.
“We are women. The yearning of the heart comes first, and everything else comes second. No one here blames you,” she would say.
“Men have a heart too, even if it is armed for war and revenge,” Helen said.
Andromache was not a native of Troy either. Achilles had sacked her city, killed her father and her seven brothers. Hector had rescued her and married her, and now he was out there on the plain, ready to defend her life and freedom once again. She felt sorry for Helen. She couldn’t foresee a happy outcome to this conflict; either Helen’s former countrymen or her new ones would be destroyed.
And so the two women sat together, waiting.
In the distance they could see the armies moving toward each other in the early-morning light. The dust swirled up, the horses whinnied and neighed, the foot soldiers yelled out their warlike cries. Achilles was at the head of the Achaeans, eager to avenge the death of Patroclus. Hector had opted to stay among his men. The moment when the two armies clashed was dreadful. The air was filled with the sound of metal against metal, man against man, life against life.
Achilles looked for Hector but couldn’t see him. Other Trojans attacked him, and it cost them their lives. Only Aeneas escaped, although he was wounded. Hector was still in the background when he saw Achilles slay his youngest brother, Polydorus, the boy old King Priam loved the best; he had forbidden his son from taking part in the war. However, Polydorus longed for the glory of bringing down the greatest warrior of them all. Achilles struck him with his spear; it penetrated his navel and the point came out through his back. Polydorus bent double in terrible pain, clutching his guts in his hands.
Hector could no longer hold back but rushed forward, holding his spear like a torch. Achilles rejoiced.
At last! The man who has caused me more pain than anyone else! Now we can no longer avoid each other, he said to himself.
It was Hector who hurled his spear first. Fleet-footed Achilles had no problem avoiding it. He thought his own weapon found its mark, although he couldn’t see too well because of the thick dust swirling all around them. He stepped forward, slashing with his sword. There was no one there. Three times he swung his sword, each time in vain. He realized that Hector had disappeared.
A sudden gust of wind picked up even more dust, and the combatants could see virtually nothing. When it settled they ran at one another with fresh rage.
Achilles flailed wildly around him. Dryops was stabbed in the neck and fell at his feet like an empty sack. Achilles left him there and went for Demuchus, pinning him down with his spear before finishing him off with his sword. He dragged the two unfortunate brothers, Laogonus and Dardanus, from their chariot and slew them. The next man, Tros, dropped to his knees in front of Achilles and begged for mercy, but not a trace was left in Achilles’s heart. Tros clasped his legs and pleaded with him, weeping, but Achilles drove his sword into the other man’s liver. Black blood spurted out, along with his life. He killed Mulius by thrusting his spear into one ear and out through the other. He struck Echlecus over the head with his sword so that the blood gushed out, then he chopped off Deucalion’s head. Rhigmus died when the spear pierced his stomach, and his charioteer when it penetrated his back as he tried to flee.
Raging like a fire in a dry forest Achilles drove his horses from place to place with death at his side. His chariot was black with blood, his hands were covered in blood, but he was not satisfied. He kept on going, chasing down the enemy with a fury greater than that of the goddesses of vengeance, the Erinyes.
The Myrmidons, who were well rested, succeeded in driving a wedge through the Trojans. Some—most, in fact—fled to the city and sought refuge behind its walls. A smaller group was forced down to the river and had no choice but to throw themselves into the fast-flowing waters. It wasn’t easy to swim in their armor; they sank and struggled desperately. Achilles and his riders followed them into the torrent and slew them one after the other. The river turned red with blood. Even the horses reared up in protest, but the Achaeans continued in spite of the heartfelt pleas for mercy, in spite of the fact that the Trojans were unable to defend themselves, in spite of the fact that this was no longer a battle but a slaughter.
Achilles outdid himself in cruelty. When he tired of killing he leaned against a tree on the riverbank, lowered his spear, and blessed himself.
“How handsome and magnificent I am at this moment!” he said aloud as he tried to forget, just for a moment, that he too was mortal, that his strong body would one day fall to a spear or a sword. It could be today, in a month, in a year. The thought of death did not soften his heart. Quite the reverse, in fact. If he was going to die he wanted to take as many as possible with him, particularly the sons of Priam.
After a short rest he entered the swirling waters once more and picked out twelve young men. Not one or two, but twelve. They were to be spared until later. He bound their hands with leather straps and told his men to take them down to the hollow ships. They were youths, little more than boys; they should never have been part of the war. However, as the saying goes, he whose fate it is to die will never drown. Those twelve boys did not drown in the cold waters of the Scamander, because another fate awaited them. They had a good idea of what was going to happen. Some wept openly, while others lamented loudly. Their cries reached all the way across the plain to Troy, where their mothers were keeping the bean soup hot until their sons came home from battle.
Achilles still hadn’t had enough. One of Priam’s illegitimate sons fell to his knees before him, begging for his life. To no avail. Eventually there was no one left worth killing. A handful were still alive, men who had lost an arm or a leg, who had deep wounds to the chest or stomach; their cries were heartrending as they pleaded for someone to save them from drowning. The Achaeans, with Achilles at their head, turned their backs on the dying and set off after the stream of Trojans seeking sanctuary in the city. Some were seriously wounded, others so exhausted that their comrades had to carry them all the way from the battlefield to the Gate of the Shadows, which had been kept open on the orders of King Priam. He was standing on top of the wall and could see what was happening. He had seen his beloved son Polydorus fall down dead, and his heart was close to breaking. He cursed old age, which prevented him from being out there with his sons and the other warriors. It was essential that as many as possible should return to the city, so the magnificent gate stayed open, and the people in the square received the fleeing soldiers. Women searched for their men, children for their fathers, mothers for their sons.
Helen searched for Paris, but there was no sign of him.
Andromache searched for Hector and spotted him in the crowd.
When the Gate of the Shadows had been closed and secured with heavy wooden bars, there was only one man who remained outside.
Hector.
He stood alone. Anyone planning to conquer his city and rob the people of their freedom would have to kill him first. In the distance he could see Achilles and the Myrmidons with their brown shields approaching.
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Miss wiped her forehead with a white handkerchief, which she then tucked into her sleeve with an almost unconscious gesture. I loved every little thing she did. The way her lips moved when she
spoke, the way she pushed her hair to one side, the way she stretched, the way she walked, and the way she stood still.
“Come along—we’re going to the square,” she said, and that’s what we did. Almost the entire village had gathered there.
There was a rumor that the partisan the Germans were looking for was injured. The dogs had found bloodstains on the ground, but he was gone.
“Is it definitely a man?” Miss asked.
There was nothing definite about it. More and more young women were getting involved in the resistance movement.
The period of grace granted to the village by the German captain was due to run out at sunset. All the men from the village were in the square—not that there were many of them, and most were really old. The captain wanted a bigger choice, so he lowered the age limit: Anyone from the age of sixteen now counted as a man.
The previous day Miss had called upon me to be a man when she told me to look after Dimitra. Now the German captain did the same. I hadn’t turned sixteen, but I had certainly turned fifteen. Berlin was being defended by boys even younger than me, the captain said, and the mayor translated his comment.
My mother tore at her hair. She wanted to go to the mayor, to the captain himself, to the village priest. I asked her not to. There was no point. She swallowed her heart, as she put it, and stayed at home.
Farmers do not sit and admire the sunset. Right now everyone was hoping that the sun would never go down, but of course it did, with pomp and circumstance. An explosion of colors over the mountains, then a breeze heavy with an assortment of scents reached us at the last minute before the sun disappeared.
There were twelve of us in total, lined up in the church square, as we called the sheltered cobbled area in front of the church. Several men had been spared because they were very old, or because they served the Germans in one way or another. The butcher, for example, and others with useful professions. In other words, you could say that the chosen twelve wouldn’t cost the Germans anything.
A masked man walked to and fro in front of us, staring at us from behind the mask, weighing up the situation with himself or with his God, who knows. He pointed to my neighbor on the left who had a harelip; he was an unfortunate soul without any property. The masked man stopped in front of me and looked at me for a long time, but decided to move on. Instead he picked out two others on the end of the line on my right. Both did odd jobs to make a living and had no land of their own. The Germans took these three with them and drove off.
Until that point you could have heard a pin drop. There was absolute silence in the square. As soon as the jeep disappeared the assembled villagers let out a cry of despair that made the birds rise from the trees where they had settled for the night.
My mother came running and took me in her arms. I hadn’t been afraid, simply because I felt totally detached. I had observed what was going on as if it were a film that didn’t really concern me. However, fear had set its mark upon my body; I had wet myself. My mother noticed; she took off her apron and tied it around my waist.
“Best if we dress our boys as girls,” she said.
“Achilles’s mother dressed him as a girl, but it didn’t help,” I replied.
The families of the three men who had been taken away grieved all night. The neighbors brought food for them and the children, while Miss looked after the very young ones, and Dimitra helped her.
Well over fifty years have passed since that night. I have forgotten the shame I felt at the urine stains on my pants in front of the whole village. However, I have never forgotten the weeping of those women. I can still hear it. I will hear it for as long as I live.
THE FOLLOWING DAY wasn’t like any other day in the village. People were up early. They sat outside the cafés waiting for the mayor. He was the only one who might know what had happened to the three men. But he didn’t know either.
“We’ll just have to pretend that it’s an ordinary day,” Miss said. So we went to school and she resumed her story.
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The Trojans were afraid. They stood side by side behind the walls like fawns when a storm threatens. There was no storm; instead a hot wind blew, making them sweat even more. They tried to slake their thirst. The Achaeans were getting closer, with Achilles in his chariot at their head. He shone like the constellation Orion in the fall, when it can be seen by all the people on earth.
Only Hector remained outside the Gate of the Shadows, awaiting his fate. His father, Priam, pleaded with him.
“My son, do not stand there alone. The man racing toward you will be the death of you. He is stronger. I wish with all my heart that he was dead, that dogs and vultures were ripping his body to shreds. He has slain so many of my sons. Their mother, blessed Laothoe, is beside me weeping. The people of Troy fear your death more than anything. Only you can save them—but not out there, all alone. You can lead them safely from inside these walls. I beg of you, Hector. My life is running out and my misery only increases. Several of my sons are dead, my daughters have been abducted and enslaved, my house has become a house of mourning, my grandchildren lie slain upon the ground, my daughters-in-law are caressed by the murderous hands of the Achaeans. I will also be torn apart by my own dogs, which I reared to guard my home, when a sharp spear causes my limbs to fail me. They will drink my blood, and their savage instincts will be reawakened. When a young man lies dead, his beauty remains even in death. But is there a more disgusting sight than an old man like me, his corpse defiled by dogs eating his manhood?”
Though Priam tore at his white hair, his pleas were in vain. Hector wasn’t listening. Then his mother, Hecuba, stepped forward. She was Priam’s first wife, and Hector was not only her firstborn but also the son she had wanted—strong, fleet-footed, magnificent. So she pushed aside the folds of her robe and exposed her left breast as she addressed him in her deep voice.
“My beloved son, with this breast I fed you and comforted you when you were hungry or upset. Have mercy on your father and me. Defend yourself and the city from behind these walls. Do not face your dreadful foe alone and outside the walls. If you fall out there, then neither I, your mother, nor Andromache, your wife, will be able to grieve at your bier; your body will be torn to pieces by the Achaeans’ dogs over by their black ships.”
Hector fixed his gaze on a point in the distance in order to resist his mother’s prayers. The situation became even more difficult when Andromache appeared on top of the wall with their son in her arms. The little boy waved to his father, whose resolve faltered for a moment. Perhaps he should enter the city—but he had refused to do so before, because he had trusted in his own strength. Now there was a risk of dragging the whole of Troy to destruction along with him. It might be better to seek refuge behind the walls—but then he would no longer be the man he was. His fate was to remain here and either defeat Achilles or fall with his honor intact.
Then he had an idea.
He placed his shield and helmet on the ground, then propped his spear up against the wall. He had decided to meet Achilles unarmed in order to seek reconciliation. Helen would be returned, along with everything she had brought with her. All the treasures of the wealthy city would be divided equally between Achaeans and Trojans. It was an appealing picture, but Hector knew that Achilles was not a man who could forgive, that he would slay him like a defenseless woman. It would be impossible to conduct a conversation with a man who was so enraged. The only option was the worst scenario of all: Hector must face his opponent in deadly single combat, and hope that the gods would be with him.
These were his thoughts as Achilles came closer and closer. Hector was not a coward, but he saw death approaching. His heart burst and he took to his heels. All the city gates were closed, so he ran around below the walls hoping to find a place where he could sneak inside.
Achilles pursued him like a hawk. They passed the watchtower and the old
fig tree; they ran toward the two springs that fed the river. One gave ice-cold water even in summer, the other flowed with warm water even in winter. That was where the women used to do their laundry in fine troughs with gleaming stones in the bottom—in peacetime, of course. It was many years since any woman had ventured down to the spring.
One hero was chasing another. The people up on the walls had never seen anything like it. They shouted encouragement to Hector and cursed Achilles, even though the two runners could hear nothing but their own breathing and the blood pounding in their ears.
Andromache couldn’t bear it. Her little son asked, “Why is Daddy running?” She had no answer, but Helen cheerfully told him, “They’re just having a race to see who’s fastest.”
Death might not be the fastest, but he catches up with all of us. Andromache took her child and went home. She wanted to spare both the boy and herself from seeing the outcome of that race, which would end with one of the competitors, her husband or his opponent, lying dead at the foot of the walls.
Everyone else stayed where they were, leaning over to get a better view of the two men speeding along like thoroughbred horses. It reminded them of a dream. Hector couldn’t get away, Achilles couldn’t catch him.
Three times they went around the city walls, and the distance between them remained the same. The audience grew impatient, something had to happen, there had to be a resolution. They shouted to Hector to stop and fight.
“Almighty Zeus is on your side, Hector! He has not forgotten all those occasions when you sacrificed fat bulls to him! If the time has come to fulfill your fate, then do it!”
The Siege of Troy Page 11