by Glyn Iliffe
And yet the day’s fighting was not over, for into the field of human debris stepped Hector. Though his armour was scarred and dusty, his limbs damp with sweat and gore, he looked unwearied as he raised his spears above his head and faced the Greek lines.
‘Trojans! Men of Greece!’ he began, speaking first in his own language and then in Greek. ‘Whether by treachery or the desire of the gods, the truce we agreed to earlier has been broken. Zeus means the war to go on, and many strong and courageous men have died today to please his will. But the sun is only now entering the waters of the Aegean; there is light still to fight by, if Greece can produce a champion who is worthy of me. Send out the best man you have, and if he can kill me, he can strip me of my armour and boast a greater victory than any other Greek has ever claimed before. Equally, if I kill him, then I will take his armour and dedicate it to the undying gods. Only, let the loser’s body be taken back to his own lines for burial and the raising of a tomb that will stand as a monument to himself and his conqueror.’
With that, he pushed his spears into the ground and stood with his arms crossed, surveying the depleted ranks of his enemies. For a long time there was silence as the weary Greeks searched their courage, knowing that Hector’s challenge could not go unmet, but each hoping that another would step forward to answer it. Only Odysseus had the desire to face him, still desperate to disprove Palamedes’s accusation, but a quick look from Eperitus reminded him of Athena’s words and kept him from stepping out. Then, when their silence began to hang over the Greeks like a cloak of shame, Menelaus slipped the shield from his back and took up his spears.
‘Not you, brother,’ said Agamemnon in a low voice, stepping in front of Menelaus. ‘You’ve fought one duel today, and whether you admit it or not the wound you received has weakened you. I’ll not have you throw away your life – and this whole war – for nothing.’
‘Have you no shame?’ Menelaus hissed. ‘Hector is mocking us, while we quake in our armour like children.’
Agamemnon scowled at the suggestion.
‘There’s no shame in refusing to fight! Even the great Achilles is afraid of Hector. Why else has he avoided him on the battlefield for so long?’
‘My cousin has never avoided a fight and you know it,’ Ajax said beside them in his deep, rumbling voice. ‘Achilles is a better man than any here, myself and Hector included. But if no other Greek wants the honour of confronting Hector, then I’ll take up the challenge myself.’
‘Then we will pray to Zeus for your victory, my friend,’ Menelaus said, as Ajax raised his tall shield to his shoulder and picked up his spears.
‘Save your prayers for yourselves,’ Ajax sneered. ‘Any man can claim victory if the gods are with him, but when I’ve sent Hector’s ghost down to the Underworld I want the glory to be given to me alone.’
He walked out from the Greek lines towards Hector, cupping a spear in his right hand as he picked his way across the dead and dying. The sounds of battle had been replaced by the hum of flies and the cawing of carrion birds. To his left the bloated orb of the sun had almost disappeared into the sea, leaving a blood-red smear across the horizon and casting long shadows over the battlefield. The north wind fanned Ajax’s face and found its way into the joins of his armour, cooling the hot skin beneath his sweat-sodden tunic. Hector raised his own spear above his shoulder and began to circle, trying to turn his opponent so that he was facing what remained of the sun. Ajax responded by moving closer, keeping the advantage of the slope and forcing Hector back. Then the Trojan gave a shout and hurled his spear. It twisted through the air towards Ajax, too quick to avoid, and punched into the many-layered oxhide, almost ripping the broad shield from his powerful grip. But it failed to pierce the thick leather and fell into the dirt, the bronze point bent.
Now Ajax advanced, a confident smile breaking his dust-caked beard and face. He pulled his spear back, took aim and launched it with a loud cry that rolled across the battlefield. Hector ducked aside as it sailed past his shoulder, then, with a shout of terrifying rage, charged up the slope with his remaining spear held before him. Ajax lifted his shield and took the point of Hector’s weapon full on the boss, turning it aside and catching his opponent off-balance. With terrifying speed, he stabbed upwards with his spear and the force of the thrust cut through the layers of Hector’s shield, biting into the side of the Trojan’s neck. Hector cried out in pain and flung his shield arm wide, tearing the spear from Ajax’s grip.
The two men fell back, Hector clasping his hand over the gash on his neck while Ajax looked around for another spear. Spotting a large rock close to, Hector lifted it above his head and heaved it towards Ajax with a grunt. It struck the rim of the Greek’s shield and knocked him back into a heap of corpses, where a momentary darkness covered his eyes and he struggled to draw breath. A jubilant cheer rose up from the Trojan armies at the bottom of the slope as Hector drew his sword and strode confidently towards the fallen giant. Before he could reach him, Ajax staggered to his feet and seized the same boulder that had struck him down. He lifted it above his head as if it weighed no more than a child and sent it whirling towards Hector.
It caught the Trojan on the front of his shield, crumpling the wooden frame and smashing him to the ground. With a shout of triumph, Ajax drew his sword and lumbered towards his prey. At the last moment, Hector sensed Ajax’s shadow fall across him and rolled aside, just as the king of Salamis plunged his blade into the ground where Hector’s body had been. Hector’s dazed senses snapped back into focus and he aimed a kick at the huge warrior as he stood over him, catching him just above the groin and sending him reeling backwards, howling in pain. Then he found his sword and, prising another shield from its dead owner’s fingers, leapt to his feet just in time to stop Ajax’s blade from splitting his head down the middle.
They threw themselves at each other now with a terrifying fury that silenced the armies above and below them and had men looking on at the duel in awe. Their blades made hollow thuds against the leather of their shields as they forgot their tiredness and tried to beat each other into submission. But the sun had sunk below the horizon and a dusky light had settled over the battlefield, choked by the haze of dust that still hung there. And then two horns sounded above the noise of battle.
Ajax and Hector both turned to see Agamemnon, Talthybius and Idaeus. The Greek and Trojan heralds held horns in their hands, while Agamemnon signalled for the two combatants to part.
‘Friends, the sun has gone and the light is following fast. Hold your arms now and call the fight a draw. Be satisfied that you both live and have earned more honour for yourselves.’
‘If our fight is to end honourably, then let Ajax and I part as friends, if only until tomorrow,’ Hector said, his breathing heavy and his voice more hoarse than ever. Returning his sword to its scabbard and unslinging it from his shoulder, he presented the silver-studded handle towards his opponent. ‘Ajax, I have never before fought a man like you. Truly, unless another of your comrades can find the skill to beat me in battle, you are the greatest of the Greeks and I give you honour and friendship.’
He bowed and Ajax took the weapon from his hand, admiring the craftsmanship on the handle and the ornate sheath, before withdrawing the blade and feeling its weight in his hand. Then he draped the baldric over his shoulder and unslipped the purple belt from about his own waist, offering it to the Trojan prince.
‘Any man who can still get up and fight after I’ve flattened him with a boulder is worthy of my friendship. Take this belt as a reminder of our fight and wear it with honour, knowing that today you faced a man who has no equal in battle – mortal or immortal.’
‘A dangerous boast, even for a warrior of your quality,’ Hector replied, fastening the belt around his waist. ‘The time may come when the gods will make you regret your words. But now we must thank them we are still alive and call the day’s fighting over.’
Paris lay on the wide, fur-covered bed, his eyes firmly closed in sleep.
He was dressed in a white, knee-length tunic – his armour long since removed – and Helen was curled up beside him, resting his head in her lap while she dabbed at his wounded scalp with a damp cloth. The bedroom smelled of her perfume, and though the sun had gone down, the stuccoed walls, white drapes and large windows kept the room bright and airy. The only sound was the swish of the cloth as Helen dipped it into a bowl of warm, slightly scented water; although from time to time, when the north wind dropped a little, the sound of wailing women could also be heard rising up from the lower city.
Helen looked down at her husband and smiled. With Menelaus dead, she thought, the Greeks would soon give up the fight and return home, and then she and Paris would at last be free to enjoy their marriage. There would be no more slaughter for her sake, no more worry that her husband was throwing himself recklessly into battle because of a misguided sense of guilt. And if there remained widows and orphans who could not forgive her presence in their city, that was something she could live with. Had she not left Pergamos at night on countless occasions, veiled and cloaked, to leave gifts of food, even silver and gold, for those who had lost husbands and fathers? She would have to live with the blame for Troy’s dead for the rest of her life, but after so long trapped behind the city’s walls she did not intend to remain imprisoned for their sake. Besides, there were many who loved her, including Priam and Hector, Hecabe and Andromache, and as long as they were happy for her to live with them then she would be content.
She dampened the cloth again and continued gently dabbing it against the wound, careful not to press too hard where Menelaus’s sword had crushed Paris’s helmet into the flesh of his head. Then she heard raised voices in the corridor beyond their bedroom and as she looked up the door burst open and a man in dust-covered, bloodstained armour came crashing into the room. He carried a tall spear in his right hand and a Greek shield over his left shoulder, while strapped round his waist was a belt of bright purple. Helen gasped in shock, momentarily fearing the Greeks had somehow entered the citadel. Then, through the dust and gore, she recognized her brother-in-law.
‘Hector!’
‘Get up!’ Hector ordered, ignoring Helen and pointing a finger at Paris. ‘Get up this instant!’
‘He’s sleeping,’ Helen protested, bending over her husband protectively as Hector strode across the room towards them. ‘He collapsed the moment he was brought into the city and hasn’t woken since.’
Hector seemed unable to hear her. Seizing the bowl from beside Helen’s feet, he poured the contents over his brother’s face before throwing it into a corner, where it smashed into smithereens. Paris shook his head and sat up, wiping the water from his eyes.
‘Where am I?’
‘In the comfort of your own house, damn it, while every other man in Troy has been toiling and dying for your sake! The plains are black with bodies and all the time you’ve been lying here in your wife’s arms. You disgust me!’
‘But it’s—’ Paris began, then looked through one of the windows to see the first stars pricking the evening sky. ‘Gods! Have I slept all this time? Why wasn’t I woken?’
‘You needed to rest,’ Helen replied as his eyes fell on her. ‘So what if others have had to fight without you for a while? Don’t you already do more than your share in this war?’
Hector grabbed his brother by the arm and pulled him from the sodden bed.
‘As long as Paris is responsible for Agamemnon’s presence on our shores, sister, he can never be seen to do more than his share. The men of Ilium have suffered grievously today, as have the Greeks – thousands dead and nearly as many badly wounded. At this very moment the elders are debating whether to return you to Menelaus and end the war, and if Paris wants to keep you here he had better get down to the palace gates and defend himself before it’s too late.’
Paris and Helen looked at each other.
‘But Menelaus is dead,’ Helen declared.
‘I saw him shot,’ Paris added. ‘He fell before my very eyes and his body was carried away by Agamemnon.’
‘You fool,’ Hector chided him. ‘It was a flesh wound only and, unlike you, Menelaus rejoined the fighting as soon as he could. Now, get your cloak and sandals and get down to the palace gates before they send your wife back to Menelaus in your absence.’
Paris gave his brother a black look, but knew that his anger was justified. While he had been allowed to sleep through the day, Hector had performed Zeus only knew what feats on the battlefield on his behalf.
‘I’m sorry, Hector,’ Paris said, pulling on his sandals and throwing a cloak around his shoulders. Then, with a final glance at his wife, he swept from the room.
‘Aren’t you going?’ Helen asked Hector as Paris’s footsteps finally receded out of earshot.
‘I’ve already argued your case,’ he replied, a little calmer now, ‘but it’ll help if Paris is there to defend himself. Apheidas and Aeneas are also standing up for you, but there are some among the council whose sons won’t return from the battlefield. They’re stirring up a storm of anger against you.’
‘Then will I be sent back to Greece?’
For the first time since entering, Hector smiled. ‘You forget the final decision always lies with Priam, and he loves you above all his sons’ wives. And now I must return to Andromache, if only until dawn calls me out to the plain again. Goodnight, Helen.’
‘You were too hard on him, you know,’ she said, taking hold of Hector’s hand. ‘Paris would have gone out on to the battlefield again. It was my fault for not waking him. The whole war is my fault.’
‘The blame for this war lies with no man or woman, sister,’ Hector assured her. ‘It’s the will of the gods and nothing more. As for my anger against your husband, I ask you to forgive me. I love Paris, and I’m only worried that voices will be raised against him for his absence today. I know he would have been there.’
With that he took his spear from the doorjamb where he had leaned it and, giving a final bow, left the room. Helen flopped back down on to the bed, confused and concerned. Though Hector had sought to reassure her about the outcome of the debate – and she did not want to leave Troy and be forced to return to Sparta – it also meant the war would continue and Paris would again take unnecessary risks in battle. When she had threatened to return to her former husband if Paris continued to pointlessly endanger himself, she had not expected him to respond by challenging Menelaus in single combat; and now she was worried he would do the same again. Was that what Hector really wanted, for his brother to sacrifice his life needlessly? Did he want the war to end in such a way and all the Trojan lives that had been lost to count for nothing? And did he not love Helen and want her to remain in Troy? Then surely he would listen to reason and order Paris to stay out of the fighting.
Suddenly she knew what she had to do. She pulled a cloak around her shoulders, drew the hood over her head and ran out into the corridor, her sandals making faint scuffing sounds on the stone floor. Hector lived in an annex of the palace close to the city’s northern watchtower, and it was but a matter of moments before she was at the pillared threshold of his house. The slaves were busily lighting torches in the small courtyard beyond, where the scent of flowers mingled with the smell of the flames. They bowed as she swept past them and up the stairs to the second level, where Hector and Andromache had their bedroom. She rehearsed what she would say as she walked the corridors, wondering whether to rely on her feminine charm or appeal to Hector’s pity to get him to order Paris out of the fighting. But as she approached the bedroom door she heard low voices, one of them tearful, and felt suddenly awkward at the thought of intruding. Instead, she moved quietly to the door and peered through the gap where it had been left ajar.
Hector was still in his grimed and battered armour. Andromache was holding his giant hands in hers, her fine white dress smeared with dust and blood where she had embraced her husband. Her cheeks were stained with tears as her dark eyes looked up into his.
‘I c
ouldn’t bring myself to watch the battle,’ she said, sniffing. ‘But my maids were on the walls. They said you were always where the fighting was hardest, like a man stamping out fires, always leaping into your chariot and riding from one point of the battle to another.’
‘Then they’ve reported truthfully,’ he said with a smile, raising a curled forefinger to her cheek and brushing away a tear. ‘But now I’m back in your arms, my love.’
Andromache choked back a sob, then lowered her head and let the tears flow freely.
‘Then where were Paris and Aeneas, and Sarpedon and Apheidas, and all those other kings and princes and captains of Ilium? Are you to run all the risks yourself?’
Hector wrapped his arms around her and folded her into his armoured chest.
‘The fighting was the hardest I’ve ever known it, and those of us whom the gods made leaders bore the worst of it. Paris was struck down by Menelaus and should have died, if the sword hadn’t broken. Aeneas was almost killed by Diomedes with a rock; Sarpedon was wounded in the leg; Pandarus was killed, and many other men of high renown besides. And that left Apheidas holding the centre and myself dashing around like a Fury.’
‘But this bravery will be the end of you,’ Andromache protested. She pointed to a wooden cot at the foot of their bed. ‘Don’t you care anything for our son? And what about me? Achilles murdered my father and seven of my brothers, and now my mother has died of her grief. What about me, Hector! You’re all I have left. Father, mother, brother and beloved husband: you’re all these things to me now. Why not bring the armies back within the walls? The Greeks are too strong for us on the open field; let them expend themselves against our god-built battlements instead. Unless you do, you’ll make Astyanax an orphan and myself a widow. Have pity!’