After a while the rider got back on his horse and continued along the bank of the river. As he got closer, Skorpios could see that he was garbed in black armor. The young Trojan gazed at him in bemusement. A single armored soldier all the way out here. He must be one of ours, he thought. Surely he could not be an enemy warrior, riding on his own in such hostile land.
The horseman stopped again. This time Skorpios could hear the words he shouted, borne on the northerly breeze. “Hektor! Hektor! Come down and fight! Come and fight me, you coward!”
Skorpios watched for a long time as the rider worked his way down the river, stopping every few hundred paces. He wondered what to do: go back and report to Hektor or keep his eye on the warrior. There were other scouts out, so he settled down to watch, his back against a tree, assuming others would be telling the strange news to Hektor.
He was observing the rider still when he heard a whisper of movement behind him and turned to find a sword at his throat.
“You would be a dead man now,” Hektor said, sheathing the sword and emerging from the undergrowth.
“I’m sorry, lord,” Skorpios replied, his face flushing. “I let you down.”
The Trojan prince squatted down beside him. “You look unwell, lad,” he commented. “You lost a good friend yesterday.”
Skorpios nodded miserably. Hektor put a hand on his shoulder. “Justinos was a fine warrior. I have seldom seen better. Make sure you get some food today; then you will sleep better tonight.
“Now,” he said, turning his gaze on the rider in black. “What do you think of this?”
“I think he is a madman. He must know there are hundreds of warriors in these woods who could ride down and kill him in a heartbeat.”
“Yet he knows they will not, because he is a man of honor, and such men believe against all the evidence that others are the same.” There was a long silence. “That is Achilles, lad, and yesterday I killed his friend Patroklos.”
“Will you go down and fight him?” Skorpios blurted out the question without thinking.
Hektor thought for a long moment, then said, “The time will probably come, Skorpios, when I will. But I will not fight him today, when there is nothing resting on it except the honor of two men.”
Is that not enough? Skorpios wanted to say, but he remained silent.
The next day the rider was a priest of Ares. Skorpios sat his horse in plain sight high on the ridge with others of the Trojan Horse. They watched as the priest, garbed in black robes with twin red sashes, traveled up the river, stopping from time to time to shout out the challenge from Achilles to Hektor. The Trojans watched him for much of the day until, as the sun fell into the horizon, he returned to the city.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE WRATH OF ACHILLES
On the third day the rider was the king of Ithaka.
Mounted on a sturdy bay gelding and wearing a wide straw hat to guard his head from the blazing sun, Odysseus was sorely conscious that he lacked the grace of Achilles or even that of the priest. He recalled that Penelope once had told him teasingly that he rode like a sack of carrots. He had confessed, “A sack of carrots would be ashamed to ride this badly, my love.”
He walked the horse slowly to where the Scamander gushed under a wooden bridge short of the foothills, dismounted gratefully, and settled down to wait. He had brought enough food for two but was prepared to enjoy the peace and silence of a day alone.
The sun was starting to fall down the sky when he finally saw a horseman coming toward him out of the tree line. He could tell at a glance it was Hektor by the rider’s size and riding style.
As he got closer, Odysseus could see that the Trojan prince had aged a good deal since they last had met. Hektor reined in his mount and regarded him silently for a moment, then got down.
“Well, king,” he said coolly, “we meet again in strange times. Are you Achilles’ mouthpiece today?”
Odysseus chewed on a piece of bread and swallowed. Ignoring the question, he gestured to the black horse Hektor was riding. “Where is Ares? He cannot be old yet. I remember him as a foal not six years ago.”
“Great Ares is dead.” Hektor sighed, his stiff demeanor vanishing as he sat down on the riverbank. “He fell at the battle of the Scamander, lanced through the chest.”
“I saw that,” Odysseus replied, frowning, “but then I saw him rise up and brave the river to save your troops.”
Hektor nodded, his face sorrowful. “He had a great heart. But it was gravely wounded. He fell and died before we could reach the city.”
“This one has a wild eye,” the king commented, glaring at the black horse, which looked back at him him balefully.
Hektor smiled. “His name is Hero. He has an angry nature. He is the horse which leaped the chasm at Dardanos. You have heard the story?”
“I invented the story.” Odysseus chuckled. “I am surprised to see the creature does not have wings and fire flaring from his nostrils.”
Hektor’s laughter rang out. “Truly it is good to see you, sea uncle. I have missed your company and your tales.” Odysseus saw a little of the weight of war and its burdens fall from the young man’s shoulders.
“Here, have some bread and cheese. I doubt if you’ve had either for many days. It will seem like a feast in the Hall of Heroes.”
Hektor tucked into the food with gusto, and Odysseus pulled more salt bread and cheese and some dried fruit from the leather bag at his side. There was a jug of watered wine in there as well. They ate, then Odysseus lay back with his head in his hands. The sky was of a blue so pale that it was almost white. He sniffed the evening breeze.
“There is a scent of autumn in the air,” Hektor commented, swallowing the last of the bread. “There could be rain soon. The city would likely hold out until the winter then.”
“Without food?” Odysseus snorted.
Hektor looked at him. “Neither you nor I can guess how much food they have still. You may have your spies in Troy, but a hundred spies are worth nothing if they cannot get their information out.”
Odysseus countered, “And a lakeful of water is worth little if they have no grain and no meat. We both know the situation in Troy must be perilous by now.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while longer, listening to the plashing of the river blending with the liquid sounds of birdsong high above. Then Hektor asked, “You have come to challenge me to fight Achilles?”
The king took a swig from the wine jug and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Agamemnon makes an interesting offer. I thought you should hear it.”
When Hektor said nothing in response, he went on. “If you will fight Achilles in a death match, regardless of the outcome, Agamemnon will permit the women and children of Troy to leave the city in safety.”
Hektor looked into his eyes. “Including my wife and son?”
Odysseus sighed and dropped his gaze. “No, he will not allow that. No members of the royal family may leave Troy. Nor the Dardanian boy, Helikaon’s son. Nor the two Thrakian princes.”
“Do you trust Agamemnon?”
Odysseus burst out laughing. “By the black balls of Hades, no!” He shook his head in amusement.
“Then why should I?”
“Because I will see that the terms of the offer are made public to all the kings and their armies. They are a wretched rabble, most of these kings, but they will not allow the slaughter of innocents if their safety has been guaranteed by all. It goes against their concept of honor. And my Ithakans will give the women and children safe conduct to neutral ships at the Bay of Herakles.”
“And why should I trust you, Odysseus, an enemy of Troy who paid an assassin to murder our kinsman Anchises?”
Odysseus struggled to hold his tongue. His pride tempted him to tell the prince the true story of Karpophorus and the plot to kill Helikaon, but he did not. It is Helikaon’s story, he thought. He will tell Hektor himself one day if he chooses.
He said, “It seems t
o me, lad, that you have no choice. I have delivered to you a way by which you could save the lives of hundreds of Trojan women and their children. If you turn your back and ride away now, you could never live with yourself. You are a man of honor. You could not be otherwise.”
Hektor nodded but said nothing. They sat for a long while as the darkness started to thicken and the air cooled.
Finally Hektor said, his voice strangely tight as if suppressing deep emotion, “You say I am a man of honor. Yet to me it seems that every day of my life is a lie and each word I speak a falsehood.”
“You are the most honest man I know,” Odysseus replied without hesitation.
Hektor gazed at him, and Odysseus could see the anguish in his eyes. “If you tell the same lie often enough for long enough, then it eventually can become the truth.”
Odysseus shook his head vehemently. “Truth and falsehood are two different beasts, as different as the lion and the lizard. They are complex animals, and they share many of the same features—they both have four legs, two eyes, and a tail. Yet you cannot mistake the one for the other. I know the truth when I see it, and I know the lie.”
He thought for a while. “Did you ever meet Helen, the wife of Paris?”
Hektor nodded. “Briefly. She was a shy woman and deeply in love with my brother.”
Odysseus said, “I met her once. I thought her sweet-natured but mousy and plain. You know how she died?” Hektor nodded, his brow darkening. Odysseus went on. “The men who were there when she threw herself and her children from the heights of King’s Joy are speaking of her as a great beauty. Throughout our camps there is talk of the beauteous Helen and her gallant death.”
“What is your point, sea uncle?”
“Only that they do not speak falsely. Soldiers cannot speak of women in terms they do not understand; they do not admire kindness, or modesty, or unselfishness. But they admire Helen’s self-sacrifice, so they tell us she was beautiful, like a goddess walking among us. And it is the truth.
“You are suffering under a great burden, Hektor. We have spoken of this before, and you will not reveal it to me. But not revealing something about yourself does not make you a liar. You show your true nature in each action you take.”
Hektor was silent, and Odysseus wondered if the agony he was suffering was because of the love between Helikaon and Andromache. Yet the young man seemed to be suffering an inner torment, blaming himself for something rather than cursing others.
He shrugged inwardly. If Hektor chose not to share his problems, there was nothing he could do about it.
“You have soundly beaten Achilles once, at your wedding games in a fistfight in front of thousands,” he said, returning to his mission. “This will be a battle with swords, to the death. Achilles is seeking revenge. You killed his shield bearer Patroklos two days ago.”
Hektor nodded. “I know. I recognized him. He was a skilled warrior.”
“He was indeed. And I liked him greatly.”
“Whose idea was the ambush?”
“It was Agamemnon’s. He calculated you would be short of supplies by now and be tempted by the supply train. Patroklos volunteered to lead it. He was easily bored, and the long summer without any action was harder on him than on most.”
“Achilles agreed to this?”
“No. He refused to allow Patroklos to go, but Patroklos went anyway, against his king’s orders. Now he will go to the pyre at dawn, and Achilles is insane with anger. He believes you targeted Patroklos deliberately, with the intent of paying him back for your victory at the games.”
“That is madness! Why would he think that?”
Odysseus thought for a long while. Then he said, “I like Achilles greatly. I have fought beside him on many occasions and lived cheek by jowl with him all summer long. I like him,” he repeated, “but, like his sister Kalliope, he has inner demons with which he fights every day. His honor is everything to him, yet this honor means he must constantly be in competition with himself and with others. Honor to him means always winning, and if he does not win, it eats him up inside like a vileness of the heart. He assumes, of course, that you feel the same way and that you are spoiling to fight him. He cannot understand why you are reluctant. So he calls you a coward, although he does not believe it.”
He went on. “Agamemnon is more than happy for this fight to take place. If you die, the Trojan cause will suffer a great blow. If Achilles dies, Agamemnon will celebrate privately, too.”
“Why would he?”
“Achilles’ father, King Peleus of Thessaly, was a bully and a coward. Agamemnon could manipulate him and found him an agreeable northern neighbor. But Achilles will be a strong king and, if they each return to their lands, a daunting new power on his border.”
“If they return to the west, Odysseus. These kings are foolish if they think they can stay away from their lands for so long and not face problems back home. Things will never be the same for them.”
“Indeed,” Odysseus agreed happily. “Agamemnon’s wife, Klytemnestra, loathes him, it is said. I’m sure she already has a new husband in waiting.”
Hektor’s face darkened at that, and Odysseus cursed himself. Hektor fears that Andromache is only waiting for him to die so that she can marry Helikaon, he thought. What fools we humans are, he thought sadly.
“It is growing dark, and I am in no mood for riding again tonight,” Odysseus said. “I will make camp here. I will wait for you until noon tomorrow. If you do not come, I will return to the city alone.”
They both stood up, then embraced as old friends again. Odysseus clapped the prince on his shoulder. “Come back to Troy with me!” he urged him. “Fight Achilles! It will be the greatest fight we mortals have ever seen, and the name of Hektor will be remembered to the end of eternity!”
The next day the king’s aide Polydorus sat in Priam’s gold-encrusted chariot as it jolted through the city streets flanked by heavily armed riders. Beside him the king was wrapped in a heavy wool cloak, although Polydorus was sweating freely under his bronze armor in the stifling afternoon heat.
He shot a glance at the old man, who was peering around, his face a mask of confusion and fear. It was the first time Priam had left his palace since the beginning of summer, and much had changed, none of it for the better.
The king had announced his intention that morning of going to the Great Tower of Ilion. Polydorus had found reason to postpone the visit, hoping that Priam would forget about it, as he always had before. But this time the old man persisted, and eventually the aide had the golden chariot brought to the gates. He was fearful that the people would see their king addled and bemused, and he ordered the charioteer to make all speed to the tower and to stop for nothing even if the king ordered it.
“I do not know this city,” Priam muttered anxiously as the gleaming chariot passed the squalid shacks of the refugees. “Where are we, boy? Is this Ugarit? We must make haste for home. My sons are conspiring against me. They wish to see me dead. I do not trust Troilus, never did. Hekabe warned me. She will know how to deal with him.”
Polydorus said nothing, and the king became quiet, gazing around at a city that was foreign to him. There were few people to be seen on the streets, although Polydorus knew that the shanty city hid hundreds dying slowly of hunger, thirst, and hopelessness. Babies and old people were the first to succumb. When the last well ran dry, which he knew could happen at any time, everyone in the city would be dead within three or four days.
They reached the steps to the south battlements. Priam was helped out of the chariot and climbed slowly, his bodyguard in full armor clattering up the stairs in front of him and behind. Soldiers guarding the wall watched open-mouthed as their king shuffled past them. A few cheered, but the sound died away quickly to leave an eerie silence.
Plunging into the darkness of the great tower, Polydorus looked up the narrow stone stairs with dread lying heavy on his chest. But Priam had climbed that way a thousand times, and his steps were firm
as he set off. Polydorus came behind him, his gaze fixed on the old man’s bony ankles and not on the steep drop to their right. He knew that if the king fell, they both would. Polydorus would try to save him, of course, but it would be impossible. They would both die, smashed on the stones far below. The old man stopped halfway up and rested against the dank wall, then took a deep breath and carried on.
When they stepped out into the daylight again, Polydorus breathed a sigh of relief. It was a rare day in Troy when the wind did not blow, yet the air was quite still on the top of the tower. The sky above was pale blue and cloudless.
Priam pulled his cloak more closely around him and stepped over to the south wall. He gazed down at the ruined lower town, his face blank. He looked into the distance. Suddenly he pointed and commented, “Hektor is coming.”
Polydorus looked to where he was pointing and saw two horsemen riding at a walking pace from the Scamander plain toward the lower town. He could see that one of them was a big man, as big as Hektor, riding a black horse, but he could see neither man’s face.
“My son. My son is coming,” the old man said happily.
Polydorus’ thoughts went to his own son, as they always did when they were allowed to. The boy was still at the breast, and the young aide found himself breathless when he thought of the boy, his wispy dark hair, his soft dimpled cheeks and happy smile. Polydorus had made his decision long since. When the city fell, he would abandon the old man to his fate and hurry to Casilla and the boy. He would defend them with his life. It was all he could do.
“Who is that with him?” the king asked.
Polydorus peered again at the riders. They were crossing the wide new bridge the enemy had built over the fortification ditch. In the silent afternoon he fancied he could hear hooves clopping on the wooden planks. With a jolt, he realized it was Hektor, riding casually, one hand on his reins, one holding his high crested helm in front of him. Beside him rode the king of Ithaka. What is Hektor doing riding into the enemy camp? he thought.
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