The War At Troy

by Lindsay Clarke

  She glanced up at him then, surprised at the tenderness in his voice, but she said nothing.

  He had to think for a time before speaking again. ‘I know that you must see me only as a man of blood. How could it be otherwise? But since the death of my friend Patroclus all sense has gone from my life.’ He looked up at her in a kind of entreaty. ‘I’ve grown weary of killing, Polyxena. I’ve grown weary of a world which takes from me everything I love so that I might better become an instrument of hate. I no longer wish to live this way.’

  Polyxena looked nervously about her, as though discomfited by this naked honesty and uncertain what might be done with it.

  She brought the clenched knuckles of her hands up to her mouth. ‘Then leave,’ she said, ‘be gone from Troy. Leave us and let us live our lives in peace.’

  ‘If I were free,’ he answered, ‘I would take ship tomorrow. But I have a debt of honour to my friends.’

  ‘And so you will stay and carry on with the killing. And the people you kill will be my friends. What am I to say to that?’ He was in such a trance of concentration on what he most deeply wished to say that it was as if she had not spoken. ‘If I were free,’ he said again, ‘. . . I would ask you to come with me.’

  She stared at him wide-eyed. Was he mad that he could even think of this? How could she ever feel anything but dread for the violent man who had slain her brother and countless others? Yet he looked utterly vulnerable before her now.

  She looked up in appeal at the statue of the god -- the serene, far-seeing presence that presided in silence over this strange, unconscionable meeting.

  And the god spoke through her. ‘It cannot be me that you want,’ she said. ‘I think it must be your own lost soul you are seeking.’

  He frowned at that. He became aware of himself as she must see him -- a pathetic figure looking for love among those who, of all people on the earth, had most reason to hate and fear him. He too looked up at the statue of Apollo and found neither sympathy nor comfort there. Achilles was alone in a foreign land, gone far beyond the place where his friends could understand him. And his own acts had left him for ever exiled from the common human bond he thought he had sensed in his meeting with King Priam, and which he had dreamed of finding again in the presence of this girl.

  Achilles stared up at Polyxena and felt her flinch under his gaze. It was clear that she wanted nothing more than to be gone from his presence. Why then had she come? No matter -- he would trouble her no longer. With a swift, involuntary catch of the breath, he turned on his heel and strode across the marble floor.

  He had reached the door when she called out his name, just once, fiercely, as though in alarm. He stopped and was about to turn, but he had seen that there could be no point in further words between them, so he shook his head to clear it and then walked on, out through the temple door into the glare across the plain.

  Achilles was at the top of the steps when the arrow pierced the back of his leg. He stumbled as though he had been kicked from behind, but did not fall at once. Only when he leaned over to look in puzzlement at the thing which had wounded him did he lose his balance, and then he was tumbling like a drunkard down the flight of marble steps.

  From where they sat in the shade of the grove outside the temple, the three Argive captains thought at first that he had missed his footing, but when they leapt up to help him they saw the shaft of the arrow protruding from the lower calf of his right leg.

  With a cry of ‘Treachery!’ Ajax ran to make a stand over the fallen body of his cousin. He arrived at the foot of the steps as two men appeared at the door of the temple above him, one of them holding a curved bow. When they saw Odysseus and Diomedes hurrying to join him with their swords already drawn, the men glanced quickly at each other and ran back inside the temple.

  Ajax and Diomedes hurried up the steps in pursuit of the Trojans, shouting out for them to stand and fight. Odysseus leaned down over Achilles, who was studying the arrow with a dazed expression on his face.

  ‘You were lucky that his aim was bad,’ Odysseus said. ‘His hand must have been shaking at the thought of slaying the great Achilles!’

  Achilles looked up in bewilderment at his friend. ‘I don’t understand,’ he murmured. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Odysseus drew the knife he wore in the scabbard at his belt. ‘Ajax was worried about you coming out here alone. He was afraid that something like this might happen.’ Glancing at the ground around them, he added, ‘Let me find a stick for you to bite on while I cut this arrow out. Are you all right there?’ When Achilles nodded, Odysseus stood up and walked back to the grove where he broke off a twig thick enough for his friend to bite. He came back, sat down on the steps beside Achilles and cut a strip of fabric from his own tunic ready to bind the wound when the arrow was out.

  ‘A couple of feet higher and he would have hit you in the arse,’ he grinned. ‘Now come on. Have a chew on this.’

  He offered the stick to Achilles who gazed up at him with a sickly smile on his face, shook his head, and then reached his own hand down to the shaft and wrenched it from his leg. The barbs tore the flesh into a vivid red gash as the head came out followed by a swift spurting of blood. Odysseus swore, reaching down to staunch the brilliant flow of blood with the piece of cloth.

  ‘You and your damned pride,’ he said. But when he looked back up into Achilles’ face, he saw that there was something awry about his eyes, and that the fixed smile on his face was deteriorating into a squint.

  ‘Poison,’ Achilles whispered. ‘The arrow is poisoned.’

  Quietly, like a man sharing a private joke with the universe, he began to laugh.

  Odysseus stared down at the wound in horror. Quickly, with the point of his knife, he cut further into the flesh of the calf to increase the flow of blood, hoping that to draw the toxin out with it. Achilles gasped at the sudden flash of pain, and then shook his head again, smiled blearily at Odysseus, and let his body fall back against the flight of steps. He lay there with one arm lax at his side and the other propped upwards from the elbow, watching the sky swim about his head. He was muttering something to himself, and when Odysseus leaned closer he could just make out the words, ‘Far-shooting Apollo has done for me too.’

  ‘You’re not done for,’ Odysseus said with tears starting in his eyes. ‘We’ll get you back to Machaon. He’ll soon put you to rights.’

  But Achilles was mumbling over him. ‘Do you remember what Apollo said when he slew the dragon Typhaon? Now rot you right here on the soil that feeds mortal men. You at least shall live no more to bring your monstrous evil on them.’ The words ended in a wry, ironical laugh and a trickle of spittle from his lips. Then his head tilted to one side and he was looking past Odysseus as though he could see someone approaching.

  Alarmed by the dilation of his eyes, Odysseus was urging him to hold on to consciousness when Ajax and Diomedes came out of the temple above them.

  ‘The bastards got away,’ Ajax called down, red-faced with fury. ‘They had a chariot out at the back of the temple. There was a woman with them. It must have been some sort of trap.’

  ‘The one with the bow was Paris,’ Diomedes said, sheathing his sword. ‘I think the other was Deiphobus, but I can’t be sure.’

  Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Ajax came down the steps saying, ‘How is he? Did you get the arrow out?’

  Odysseus blinked up at them, biting his lip. ‘The tip was poisoned,’ he said in a taut gasp of breath. ‘I think he’s dying.’

  Ajax stared down at him in disbelief, and then, as he looked into Achilles’ face, a grunt of anguish broke from his muscular frame. His upper lip pulled back so that his teeth were bared. He bent down to take his cousin’s limp hand, but let it drop after a moment like a useless thing.

  When he stood up, Ajax, son of Telamon, who had once boasted that he had no need of help from the gods, was shouting curses at the sky.

  The news that Achilles had been kille
d brought jubilation to the streets of Troy.

  After the death of Hector, the people had huddled behind their walls, wretchedly preparing for the siege. Even the arrival of Memnon and his Ethiopians had not greatly cheered them, for though their help was welcome, the African warriors had also brought another regiment of mouths to feed from the city’s dwindling stores. But now that Achilles was dead, surely the heart must have been knocked out of the Argive host? It could only be a question of time before they gave up this vain struggle.

  And it was Paris, the cause of all Troy’s woes, who had proved to be its salvation. He had done what was needful in a desperate time, and the city was ready to hail him as a hero.

  Yet as he stood in the citadel of Ilium smiling down on the cheering crowd with his father and Deiphobus beside him, Paris already knew how empty his triumph was. Helen had refused to appear beside him, and still would not come from her chamber even when the crowd summoned her by name. Antenor had shrivelled him with a glare of utter contempt, and though Priam stood beside his son before the public gaze, when he turned away into the palace, his face was grim and austere. The royal company was about to disperse, when Priam summoned Paris and Deiphobus into his withdrawing room.

  ‘Why was I not informed of this plan to ambush Achilles?’ he demanded quietly.

  Deiphobus said, ‘We thought you might forbid us to put our lives at risk.’

  ‘So you chose to act without my knowledge and consent?’

  ‘For the good of the city,’ Deiphobus answered. ‘Have events not justified us?’

  Priam studied him with weary eyes. ‘Can anything justify the profaning of Apollo’s shrine? The Far-sighted One has long protected this city. How long do you think he will choose to do so if we commit murder in his sanctuary?’

  ‘We waited till Achilles had left the temple,’ Paris said. ‘It was why I used the bow.’

  Priam shifted his gaze to study him. ‘Or was it because you dare not stand against him man to man?’

  Paris recoiled into anger. ‘Don’t I recall that even your beloved Hector ran before Achilles? Be content that he is avenged.’

  Sharply Priam drew in his breath. ‘It demeans both names to hear them on your lips.’ He turned away, shaking his head. ‘A poisoned arrow fired from a place of concealment! Did your hand tremble so much that it spoiled your aim?’

  ‘The arrow would have gone straight to his heart if Polyxena had not pushed at my arm.’

  ‘I have spoken with Polyxena,’ the king’s voice was shaking as he spoke. ‘It was she and the priest who told me the shameful facts of the case. Is there no honour left among my sons that they could use their youngest sister so?’

  ‘What matter?’ Deiphobus put in. ‘Achilles is dead. That is all that counts.’

  ‘You think so?’ Priam answered. ‘Is that what these long years of war have done for us? There was a time when I was proud of my sons. There was a time when I believed that right was on our side and that the gods would therefore wish us to prevail. But look what we have become. It sickened me to perform that charade of triumph before the people.’

  ‘Would you rather Achilles had lived to burn your city?’ Deiphobus snarled. ‘Perhaps you would rather he had been born your son?’

  Priam glanced away, ‘I would rather my sons had been such a man as he was, that is all. Now get from my sight, both of you. I have grieving to do for the death of honour in the world.’

  Helen was sitting by the window casement combing her long hair when Paris came in. Aethra, frail and ancient now, was working at her tapestry frame across the room.

  ‘Why didn’t you come when the people called for you?’ he demanded.

  Quietly she said, ‘Because I had no wish to share in your disgrace.’

  ‘The city was doing me great honour.’

  ‘The city does not know what the women of the palace know.’ With her head tilted away from him towards the light from the window, Helen resumed the combing of her hair.

  Paris glowered across at the old bondswoman. ‘Leave us.’

  ‘Aethra, stay,’ said Helen.

  Aethra hesitated uncertainly between them.

  ‘Evidently the hero of Troy thinks we’ve been deficient in respect for him,’ Helen said. ‘How shall we honour the man who slew Achilles, do you think?’

  He saw that she had been drinking wine.

  ‘If there’s shame in what I’ve done for you,’ he said, ‘you have an equal share in it. What I did was done for your protection.’

  She could deny neither her horror at what he had done nor the truth of what he had just said. They were as close in shame as they had once been in love. And still that love laid claims on her, even now as she fought against it. The conflict shadowed Helen’s face, but all he saw of it was a cold stare, from which he turned away in pain. Then he was looking at the rich hangings of the room and the many beautiful objects they had collected there -- things brought back from Cyprus and from Egypt, gifts that had come from friends and admirers all across the east, pieces they had commissioned together from the finest craftsmen and artists of Troy. All the memorials of a now defeated love which had once filled every moment of their lives. He had wanted only to be at liberty with her, to adore her as he adored Aphrodite. Yet somehow, almost without seeing it happen, he had lost her, and he could not see how he would ever win her back again.

  ‘There was a time when you were proud to love me,’ he said.

  ‘There was a time when you . . .’ she began. But lacking both the will and the desire to wrangle with him, she shook her head and looked away.

  ‘Say it,’ he demanded, ‘say what you were going to say.’

  When she looked back at him, there was neither reproach nor dismissal in her eyes, only an infinity of regret. ‘If I had any hope I would say it.’

  ‘But you have no hope?’

  His voice was harsh with accusation, but his eyes were those of a man standing in a last court of appeal, still hoping to refute the evidence. Unwilling to pass sentence, Helen reclined back against the casement and closed her eyes.

  Paris said, ‘You think there is no hope for us.’

  He saw her black hair shining in the light. And when she still declined to answer, it was as though one of them, either he or she, was drifting helplessly out to sea, far beyond the other’s reach.

  Paris glanced uncertainly at Aethra, who lowered her eyes to her work. And when he looked back at Helen again he saw that the light might have turned her into a marble statue of herself, as beautiful as she had ever been, but bereft of speech, and passionless, waiting for the dark to fall.

  For a time Agamemnon wondered whether his army would ever recover from the death of Achilles. Day after day they mourned their dead champion and not even the ardour with which the men contended in the funeral games could ease the brutal sense of desolation. Hard-bitten veterans who had stared death between the eyes for years were unmanned by this loss. Achilles had seemed as close as a man might come to being a god -- he had never been known to show fear for his life, he had taken the life of others with a god’s relentless indifference, and his followers had begun to believe him immortal. It made no sense to them that he should have fallen ingloriously to an assassin’s arrow on holy ground. All of the commanders -- even Diomedes -- were left shocked and incredulous, and the grief of Ajax in particular knew no bounds.

  Unable to forgive himself that he had been lounging in the shade eating figs when only a few yards away Achilles was struck down, Ajax had carried him unassisted all the way back to the Argive camp, hurrying to find medical help. But by the time he laid his burden down, Achilles was dead, and this further failure added to the already intolerable sum of his guilt.

  The grief of Ajax turned rapidly to rage. Shouting that the greatest warrior of the age had been struck down by treachery and that his shade cried out for vengeance, he went out onto the plain and began to hunt down with appalling savagery any Trojan unlucky enough to cross his path.

&
nbsp; The war had already shattered the nerves of many men who sat about the camp weeping and trembling until someone lost patience with them and put them out of their misery, or they were smuggled aboard a returning supply vessel and shipped home. But the madness of Ajax began only as a still more fanatical commitment to the struggle, and at first it went unrecognized. Men said that he was trying to emulate Achilles, fighting as his cousin had done in the bloodbath at the Scamander. But when he came back from a raid one day wearing a necklace of severed ears, Odysseus began to fear for Ajax’s mind.

  On the last day of the funeral rites that were held for Achilles, the hero’s ashes were mingled with those of Patroclus and the golden urn was buried under a great mound that was raised on the headland overlooking the Hellespont. The funeral games were over and nothing remained to be done except to decide who should inherit the marvellous suit of armour that had been the gift of Thetis to her son.

  The decision fell to Agamemnon, and it was a hard one, for all the commanders coveted that trophy, both for its own rich sake and for the memory of the man who had worn it. Agamemnon decided that the principal contenders must be those who had been with Achilles at his death, and of those three men it seemed wisest to give the armour to the one on whom he most depended -- Odysseus.

  The decision was unacceptable to Ajax. Was he not the man who had tried hardest to hunt down the murderers of Achilles? Had he not carried the body back in his own arms? Had his exploits since the death not shown that he was the true successor to Achilles as the terror of the Trojans? By every right the suit of armour should be his. Were Achilles alive, he declared, Agamemnon would not dare to dishonour him by offering it to any lesser man.

  But Agamemnon had made his decision and would not go back on it.