by David
“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 to 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 kno
w 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.
“Odysseus!” the old man cried, waving his fist. “Treacherous dog! Cut the head from his shoulders, my son! Kill the cur!”
Now there were cries and shouts from below, and men started appearing from the shadows of the ruins. Hundreds of soldiers—Mykene, Thessalians, and mercenaries alike—were running to the main street where Hektor rode. They lined up on each side of his path, watching as the Trojan prince passed, Odysseus riding by his side. There were some jeers, but they were smothered quickly. Then there was silence as the two riders made their way up to the Scaean Gate.
Polydorus hurried to the side of the tower that looked down on the gate. There stood a huge dark-haired man in black armor. Polydorus knew immediately who he was. What is happening? he thought.
There was a brief conversation among the three men in front of the gates, and then Achilles stepped aside and walked away, apparently satisfied. Hektor looked up, and his voice boomed out. “Open the gate! Hektor, prince of Troy, commands it!”
Polydorus ran to the inward side of the tower and leaned far over the battlements.
“Open the gate!” he shouted down to the guards. “Hektor has returned! Open the gate now!”
Andromache was resting on a couch on the east terrace when the distant sound of cheering came to her ears. She sat up and glanced at Axa, who gazed at her in puzzlement. They both rose and went to the terrace wall but could see nothing from the vantage point. The cheering was getting louder all the time.
“I will go and find out what is happening,” she told her maid.
“Perhaps the enemy has left and we are saved,” Axa ventured.
“Maybe,” Andromache replied doubtfully, and left her apartments and hurried through the palace.
Outside the Royal Guard also was uncertain about what was happening. They had unsheathed their swords, ready for action. Then Polites appeared with his bodyguard, looking alarmed.
“Why is there cheering, Polites?” Andromache asked, but he shook his head.
Then a rider galloped up the stone streets toward them. He threw himself off his horse and cried, “Prince Hektor is back, lord! He is here in the city!”
The sound of cheering came closer, and now Andromache could hear the words repeated over and over: “Hektor! Hektor! HEKTOR!”
Hope blossomed in her heart, immediately followed by a stab of fear. The summer had been tedious but uneventful. Although the enemy was at the gates, it was impossible to stay frightened all the time, and eventually a complacent calm set in as long hot day followed long hot day. Now the wheel of events was starting to turn again, and something inside her told Andromache that this was the beginning of the end.
When her husband finally came in sight, walking his horse slowly up toward the king’s palace, he was surrounded by a mob of cheering Trojans. Soldiers had formed a circle of protection around him, but people kept trying to break through in a bid to touch his robe or sandals. The black horse fidgeted nervously, but Hektor kept him walking steadily on a tight rein. As he reached the palace, the Royal Guard pushed the mob back, but the people continued shouting his name and cheering.
Hektor smiled when he saw Andromache and reined in his horse. He dismounted wearily, then embraced her, holding a hand out to his brother. “Andromache. Polites. It is good to see you both.”
“We thank the gods you are here, Hektor,” Polites replied. “But why and how? You come unlooked for.”
Hektor shook his head. “I must speak to Father first.”
“But Father is not well,” Polites told him.
“I know,” Hektor countered, sorrow in his voice. “Nevertheless, he is still the king, and I must speak to him first.”
He gripped Andromache’s hand tightly for a heartbeat, then let her go and turned and walked toward the king’s palace with his brother. Andromache returned to her apartments, her mind in a whirl. Waiting never had come easy to her, and she found herself pacing up and down the terrace, restless with uncertainty and anticipation. The sky darkened, and the two boys went to their beds, but still Hektor had not come.
Finally the door opened with a whisper, and he was there, dressed in an old gray tunic and threadbare cloak. She ran into his arms. He held her for a while, his face pressed deep into her hair. Then she looked up at him and said, smiling, “On the bank of the Simoeis I told you we would meet again.”
Gazing into her eyes, his face grave, he told her, “There is to be a duel, Andromache.”
She took a deep breath and asked, “It’s with Achilles, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “I killed his friend Patroklos, you see, and he wants vengeance.”
She found anger surging up inside her and pulled away from his embrace. “This is not a game, husband! This friend of his came here, like Achilles, to plunder the city, to kill and to maim. Do you owe it to Achilles to fight him because you killed his friend? Hektor, you have killed hundreds in battle since this war started. Do you have to fight all their friends, too?” She heard the heavy sarcasm in her voice and hated herself for it, but she could n
ot stop herself. “This is a grand nonsense, husband!”
He opened his mouth to speak, and she cried, “And do not say the word ‘honor’ to me! I am sick and tired of that word. It seems to me that honor means whatever you men want it to mean.”
Hektor watched her until her rage subsided a little. “If I fight Achilles, they will let our women and children go. Agamemnon has pledged this, and Odysseus guaranteed it.”
“And you believe them?” she asked, but her anger had weakened, and she could lean on it no more. “Will Astyanax be taken to safety?”
He shook his head sadly. “If they had agreed to that, I would not have trusted them.”
“This is still a grand nonsense,” she repeated sadly.
“What is wrong, Andromache?” he asked gently.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. What is wrong with me? she thought. My husband returns to me, having secured the lives of Trojan women and children, yet I am shouting at him like a fishwife.
She smiled at him. “I’m sorry, my love. But what happens if Achilles kills you? Will Agamemnon then keep his word? Why would he?”
He explained. “The gates will be opened at dawn, and the women and children allowed to leave. They will be escorted to the Bay of Herakles, where they will take ship for Lesbos. The gates will close again at noon, when the duel will start. So Achilles and I will not meet until after the innocents are freed.”
“Can you win?”
“I have beaten everyone who has ever come against me. And I have beaten Achilles before. You were there.”
“Yes, it was brutal.”
He nodded. “Fistfights can be like that. This will be a duel to the death with swords.”
Her blood ran cold as she thought of it. “It must be quick,” she told him, thinking back to Helikaon’s duel with Persion.
“Yes.” He nodded. “The longer it goes on, the more likely he is to kill me. He is very skilled, very fast, and he is younger than I am. But he has weaknesses. Pride and vanity are his constant companions. They are unreliable friends and often give bad advice.”