Some of them even started placing bets. The deadly single combat between the two heroes was turning into something of a circus act, and everyone wanted to see how it ended. Even Hector’s brother—one of the few who was still alive—called to him to stop and fight man to man, spear to spear, sword to sword.
Meanwhile people had started emerging from the Achaeans’ tents and ships: wounded warriors, servants, Trojan prisoners of war, slave girls, each one with his or her own hopes. The Achaeans dreamed that they would soon be able to board their ships, hoist the sails, and set off for home. The Trojans hoped to regain their lives if Hector was victorious. Briseis, who had also joined the others, was not in such a fortunate position. She both loathed and worshipped Achilles. Her head told her that she ought to wish him dead, but her heart had a different message.
There was no doubt that the chase was taking its toll on Hector’s strength more than on his opponent’s. Fear weakened him, while rage made Achilles even stronger. Hector could no longer avoid his fate, and so he stopped.
Silence fell, and Hector spoke into that silence.
“I will no longer flee, Achilles. I stand here ready to face you, ready to kill or be killed. But first I want to make a promise to you. If the gods grant me victory, I will not defile your body. I will take your armor, but I will return your body to your countrymen. Promise me that you will do the same.”
Achilles’s heroic barbarity did not allow him to show any humanity, and he simply sneered at Hector.
“I have never heard of a pact between a lion and a man, or between a wolf and a lamb. I feel nothing but anger toward you because of all the friends and comrades of mine that you have slain. Your time has come.”
He had barely finished speaking when he hurled his spear, but Hector made himself so small that it flew over him. Was this a sign from the gods? Did they want to give him the glory of bringing down the Achaeans’ greatest warrior?
“You missed, Achilles, and I am still here! I am not going to run away—you will not see my back!”
Hector threw his own spear with renewed confidence. It struck the center of Achilles’s shield but did not penetrate it, which dismayed Hector.
I have no intention of dying without honor and without a fight, he said to himself. He seized his heavy sword and rocked back and forth on his toes for a moment, gathering his strength like an eagle that hovers in the sky before swooping on a grazing lamb.
Achilles was not unprepared. He had already chosen his target: the point where the throat and collarbone meet. There and only there. Everything else was protected by armor.
The two men were a magnificent sight—Hector with his dark curls and those passionate, coal-black eyes; Achilles with his long fair hair and feline yellow eyes. Tall, broad-shouldered, and narrow-hipped. If the supreme god had any sense he would let them both live. That didn’t happen.
This time Achilles did not miss. His spear penetrated Hector’s neck. He fell to the ground but was still able to speak.
“I beg you, do not throw my body to the dogs. My father and mother will reward you generously with gold, silver, and bronze if you will only allow them to take me home so that the Trojans and their wives may burn me on a funeral pyre, as is our custom.”
This enraged Achilles still more.
“Do not plead with me, you cur! I would like to hack you to pieces and eat your raw flesh in revenge for the pain you caused me when you slew my dearest friend. No treasures in the world can save you now. If your father offered me your weight in gold, your mother would still not be permitted to lay you on a bier and sing her laments over you. You do not belong to them anymore. You belong to the dogs and the carrion birds.”
Hector summoned the last of his strength. He shook his head and his helmet gleamed as in days gone by.
“Your heart is harder than your spear; I shouldn’t ask for your mercy. But your day will also come. However brave you might be, you are not immortal.”
This was the last thing Hector said, and death closed his eyes with cold fingers.
Achilles had to have the final word.
“I will welcome my death when it comes.”
He pulled out his spear and put it to one side, dripping with blood, then stripped the body of its armor. A number of the Achaeans crowded around and couldn’t help admiring Hector’s beauty even in death, although that didn’t stop them from attacking the naked corpse with stabs and blows, with kicks, spitting, curses, and spiteful abuse.
“He doesn’t have as much to say for himself now as when he was trying to set our ships on fire!”
Achilles still wasn’t satisfied. His ferocious heart cried out for more revenge and still more revenge, so that no one would ever forget it, so that even the gods would be astonished. He made holes in the dead man’s feet and through these holes he threaded strong leather straps, which he then tied to his chariot. The others looked on, trying to work out what he had in mind. It soon became clear.
Achilles drove off, dragging the corpse along the ground, and Hector’s once handsome face was covered in dust. The black curls trailed in the dirt, his nose was broken, the half-open mouth collected sand and dust and the waste from the horses.
Hecuba, Hector’s mother, screamed and tried to throw herself from the high wall. Priam, his father, wept loudly. He wanted to go out and plead with Achilles, but his people stopped him. “He is too cruel and too angry,” they said, but Priam was still determined to try.
“He might respect my age. His father is as old as me. I have already suffered enough. Several of my sons are dead, and now I have lost the one who was most precious to me. When you lose those you love, the only solace comes from mourning them with dignity, from holding them in your arms, wailing and lamenting until you have had your fill.”
Hecuba would never have her fill. Surrounded by her daughters-in-law and other women, she spoke to her son.
“How can I live with this pain? You were my pride and joy, the pride and defender of the whole city. You were my glory and the glory of Troy. How am I going to live without you?”
The only person who didn’t know about Hector’s death was Andromache. She hadn’t dared to stay by the wall but had gone home, sat down at her loom, and pretended that everything was normal. She told the slave girls with the pretty braided hair to heat the water ready for Hector’s bath when he returned home from the conflict. From time to time she glanced at her son, who was sleeping close by in the arms of his wet nurse. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, she was gripped by fear; her body shook and she dropped her shuttle. She could hear groans and sorrowful voices in the distance. She leaped to her feet and took two slave girls with her. What misfortune had befallen the city?
She ran to the wall, her heart pounding as if it were trying to break out of her breast. Someone tried to stop her from seeing what she had already seen. Her husband was being dragged along behind Achilles’s chariot, which was speeding toward the Achaeans’ ships. A darkness darker than the night shrouded her eyes and she collapsed on the stony ground. Her golden headdress slipped off, taking with it the veil that held her long, wavy hair in place.
It was Helen who took care of her and revived her.
“My husband, my Hector!” Andromache wailed. “I have lost everything!”
The tears poured down her face and her voice failed her. It would have been better if she had never been born, better if she had never given birth to a son, who would now grow up without his father. Helen rocked her in her arms, and Andromache remembered when Hector had come to her father with rich gifts and asked for her hand in marriage, before Achilles had destroyed her city. She remembered their first night together, and fresh tears flowed. The body she loved would be consumed by dogs and vultures. She would not have the chance to kiss him before his final departure. All that was left of him were his clothes, woven by the women of Troy. She wou
ld burn those clothes on a great pyre.
“What is our son going to do without you, my husband? Who will protect him from dangerous games, who will teach him to tame a horse and throw a spear? Who will make him a man? Your quest for honor and glory in war, that source of tears, has led to your death. You left your son and me when we had only just tasted happiness.”
With these words Andromache wept once more.
________________
Miss sat down.
“That will do for today,” she said, fixing her gaze on me. It had become a habit. Each time she stopped for the day, she turned to me—but this time she really was looking hard at me.
Why? Was she thinking about the previous evening, when I stood before the masked man in the square? Was she thinking that I would soon be there again?
Did she have any idea how I felt about her? Do we smell different when we’re in love? Maybe. Dimitra had definitely seen through me, and gave me a sympathetic smile.
We walked home together as usual.
“What a terrible person Achilles was! He’s like the Germans. How on earth can they sacrifice innocent people just for the sake of revenge?”
I agreed with her. How indeed?
When we reached the square we found the answer. They just do. They do it because they can. The three men who had been picked out yesterday were hanging from the ancient chestnut tree.
“They look so helpless,” Dimitra said, her voice almost inaudible. Being hanged is a very cruel way to die. You are robbed of contact with the earth. You die exiled from your element, in the emptiness of the air.
I put my arm around her shoulders and led her away. Miss had made me responsible for Dimitra. The families of the dead were no longer weeping.
“Life goes on,” I said. I knew it was stupid, but I couldn’t come up with anything better. In a couple of hours, three new victims would be selected. In a couple of hours I would be standing in line with the others, and the masked man would point at three of us.
Was I going to die tonight?
I thought about all the innocent young men whom Achilles had murdered, showing no mercy. More than three thousand years had passed since then, and death had not become any less cruel.
I had definitely decided that I wasn’t going to wet myself again. It was the least I could do.
I climbed up into the mulberry tree, as high as it was possible to get. That was what we used to do as little boys—a test of manhood. From there I was able to follow the transit of the sun. The shadows slowly grew longer, the mountains in the distance grew darker. The fragrance of the almond blossoms mingled with more robust cooking smells from the houses all around: oregano and basil, rancid fat, bean soup. It seemed to me that even the sunlight had a scent of its own.
Then the church bell signaled that it was evening, and time to go to the square. My mother was looking for me, but I couldn’t bear to say goodbye to her yet again.
The men from the village were outside the church, and I joined the end of the line. The German captain and the masked man were already there.
As we waited, more dead than alive, a military vehicle came speeding into the square. They had caught the partisan. Miss had been right: It didn’t necessarily have to be a man. It could be a woman, and it was a woman. We’d never seen her before, but then again we wouldn’t have recognized her anyway.
They threw her on the ground like a sack of wheat. Her body was covered in blood, but she was alive. She was whimpering very quietly. The captain and his colleague in the car held a brief discussion. No one heard what was said, but everyone saw what happened next. The captain shot the young woman, right in the middle of her forehead. Her brains spattered all around. Then he spoke to the mayor, who translated his decision.
Yes, they had caught the person they were looking for, but after sunset. Therefore three of us would be executed, as he had decreed.
And that’s what happened. Three new victims were selected, I wasn’t one of them. The Germans took them and drove away. They left the young woman on the cobbles outside the church.
“We need to find out who she is,” the mayor said.
At that moment Miss stepped forward. The woman was her colleague and friend from the nearby mountain village. The Germans had carried out a raid and set fire to it. The wind carried the thick smoke and the smell of burning flesh all the way over to us.
“I’ll take care of her. Her name is Iphigenia,” Miss said.
“Iphigenia…what?” asked the mayor.
Miss shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Then she turned to me.
“Will you help me?” she asked.
MISS WIPED HER EYES, and so did the rest of us, especially Dimitra. It had been a long night. The whole village had kept vigil. We took care of the young woman’s body, washing away the blood and semen. They had forced themselves on her, using every orifice.
Miss fetched her prettiest dress and put it on her friend. The grandmother of one of the three men who had been executed the previous day sang a lament in her shaky voice.
My child, how shall I bear
so much pain?
If I scatter it over hill and dale
the birds will peck at it.
If I cast it into the sea
the fish will nibble at it.
If I lay it at the crossroads
the wanderers will trample upon it.
I would rather hold it in my heart.
Then I can lie down and rest for a while
when it hurts too much.
Everyone who was there struggled to hold back the tears. Dimitra rested her head on my shoulder. She was my responsibility. Miss had said so.
The burial was very discreet. It took place early in the morning, just as the sun broke through the mist. We were afraid of arousing the Germans’ anger, but we couldn’t do anything at night. God must know who had died.
However, two Germans did show up. They didn’t come close, they didn’t make it obvious, it was almost as if they just happened to be near the churchyard.
It was the two pilots, Wolfgang and Erich. Miss lowered her head to hide a little smile, a newborn baby of a smile, you could say.
But I saw it. And I knew. They were in love, all three of them. One woman and two men. How was that going to end?
THE NEXT DAY was the first of May. Dimitra and I cut across the square on our way to school. Posters had been put up outside the three cafés and the mayor’s office, and on the big chestnut tree. It was from the German area commandant. Due to the Greek resistance fighters’ “cowardly” murder of a high-ranking German officer, two hundred political prisoners in various jails had been executed, with “outstanding bravery” as Dimitra read scornfully.
I immediately thought about my father. Was he still alive?
I squeezed my eyes tight shut, as if I didn’t want to see what I saw. Could I keep it from my mother?
We had almost arrived at school. Miss was pale, with dark circles beneath her eyes.
“There’s nothing we can do apart from our job,” she said, and continued her story in a slightly unsteady voice.
________________
Andromache mourned her husband, surrounded by the women of Troy, and Achilles prepared to lead the lament for Patroclus. The Achaeans had returned to their ships and dispersed. But the Myrmidons gathered around their leader, and he spoke to them.
“My loyal friends and comrades, let us not step down from our chariots and unharness our horses with their long manes. Instead let us honor Patroclus as befits a man who struck fear into the hearts of our enemy. Then we will eat together and talk about him, about his beauty and strength, his steadfast friendship and warm heart, until our grief eases.”
Three times they drove their horses around Patroclus’s bier, weeping and watering the
sand with the tears pouring down their faces, until Achilles descended from his chariot and positioned himself in front of the dead man.
“I have kept the promise I made to you, my beloved friend. Hector lies dead, and soon I will feed him to the dogs.”
He flung Hector’s body before the bier and kicked it. After that he was calm enough to offer the men an excellent meal. Huge quantities of oxen and calves, sheep and lambs, full-grown goats and kids, fat hogs and suckling pigs were slaughtered, flayed, and grilled over open fires.
Achilles ate nothing and drank nothing.
Meanwhile a message arrived from Agamemnon, inviting Achilles to his tent along with all the other leaders and kings. Victory was close. Hector, the incorruptible defender of Troy, was as dead as he could be.
Agamemnon’s servants had heated water so that Achilles could wash off the blood and dust. He refused.
“I do not have the right to enjoy anything until I have sent my friend on his way, raised a monument to his memory, and cut my hair. However long I live, I will never experience such pain again. But if you want to please me, Agamemnon, order your servants to gather everything that is needed for a magnificent pyre—both young and mature oaks that will burn easily and smell good. My friend must reach the King of the Underworld wreathed in burning flames, which can dispel the darkness of death for a little while.”
Agamemnon promised to take care of the matter, and Achilles returned to his men, who had gone to their tents to rest. He couldn’t sleep. He was very tired, but slumber would not come, and in the end he went and sat on the shore. A cooling breeze blew in from the east, carrying with it the wailing and weeping of the Trojans.
It was Patroclus’s fate to be killed by Hector. It was Hector’s fate to be killed by Achilles. Who or what will be my fate? he asked himself. He would have liked to have Briseis by his side right now. She could always lull him to sleep with her caresses. The very thought of her made him relax, and he fell into an uneasy doze, suffused with bad dreams and disturbing images. The pursuit of Hector below the walls of Troy, in full view of everyone, had made him feel more like an executioner than a hero. But most of all he was tormented by the appearance of Patroclus in his dream, upbraiding him bitterly.
The Siege of Troy Page 12