The Trojan War

by Bernard Evslin

“Hear me, Trojans, hear me. Return Helen; she brings death. Your fair city will be rent stone from stone, your young men slaughtered, your ancients shamed, and your women and children taken into slavery. Ship her back to Sparta before it is too late … too late … too late …”

  Helen, hearing only her name spoken, smiled at the girl. And the crowd, seeing her smile, went wild with enthusiasm. Cassandra’s words were heeded no more than if they had been the small wind rattling the leaves. The girl fell silent, moaning softly as the thwarted vision dug its fangs into her head.

  “And that is why we’re off to Troy now,” said Ulysses to Achilles. “The events I have related to you, young falcon, are the roots of this war.”

  “All this to retrieve a runaway bride?” said Achilles. “One reason to fight is as good as another, so long as you fight, but I would have expected a great war to have a greater cause.”

  “You haven’t seen the lady,” said Ulysses.

  “Oh, I understand what you tell me, that she’s enough to send the Trojans mad. But then they’re half-mad to begin with.”

  “I repeat, you haven’t seen the lady, or you wouldn’t talk like that. She’s enough to send more than Trojans mad. She’s maddened some very hard-headed Greeks that I know of … all of us, to be sure. We were all her suitors—every prince and chieftain of the Peloponnese and its islands—so many of us and such a fierce brawling crew that her foster father, Tyndareus, didn’t dare give her to any one for fear he might offend the others. So he kept fobbing us off with one excuse after another until we were all ready to fly at each other’s throats. Finally, I came up with a little plan: that each suitor take an oath to abide by Helen’s own choice of husband and forbear from attacking the lucky man—or Tyndareus. Further, we would all swear to a binding alliance, so that if anyone else attacked her husband and attempted to rob him of Helen, we would band together and punish the interloper. We swore a most sacred oath on the quartered carcass of a horse. And that is why we must all go now to the aid of Menelaus, and pursue Paris even into Troy itself.”

  “Are they good fighters, the Trojans?” asked Achilles.

  “The best—next to us. And, in their own minds, they have no such reservation. There will be keen fighting, never doubt it. We all wish to help Menelaus, of course, but each of us also sees something in it for himself. Fame. A chance to use our swords before they grow rusty. Also slaves. And mountains of loot. Troy is a very rich city, far richer than any of ours. And there is something else. The city stands upon a headland commanding the straits which lead into the Black Sea and to the rich land of Scythia, where there are boundless opportunities for trade and slave-raids, piracy, and other commercial traffic. But while Troy stands, our fleets can never enter those straits, nor can we penetrate the lands of the Black Sea nor the further mysterious reaches of Asia, whose east winds fairly reek of wealth. These are considerations too, lad.”

  “All I want to do is fight,” said Achilles. “I’ll leave the reasons to you.”

  “Well, you should get your stomachful. Our forces are to be led by Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, and brother to Menelaus. He is a bold, practical leader, very aggressive, very ruthless. He is married to Helen’s elder sister, Clytemnestra, and so has a double motive for adopting his brother’s blood-feud with the royal family of Troy.”

  What Ulysses did not tell Achilles was that he himself had tried a little draft-dodging before coming to Scyros. An oracle had said that if Ulysses went off to fight at Troy it would be twenty years before he could come home and, when he did so, it would be as a penniless vagabond, recognized by no one. So, when Agamemnon and Palamedes, King of Euboea, came to Ithaca to demand his aid against Troy, he tried to evade his vow by feigning madness. He put on a tall, pointed fool’s hat and harnessed a bull and a goat to his plow, sowing his furrow with salt instead of seed. But, after watching him for a bit, Palamedes, who was almost as crafty as Ulysses, decided to give him a sanity test. He plucked Ulysses’ infant son from his nurse’s arms and set him on the ground in the path of the oncoming plow. Ulysses reined his animals short, and snatched the babe out of danger.

  “You’re fit for fighting,” said Palamedes. “Drop the bluff, and come along.”

  “A parent’s instinct is stronger than reason—I mean unreason,” said Ulysses. “But I assure you my wits are deranged.”

  “Nonsense,” growled Agamemnon. “How sane do you have to be to make war? In this affair a touch of madness may help. You have the right sort of wits for us, Ulysses. So keep your oath, and come away.”

  THE EVENTS AT AULIS

  THEY FOUND A THOUSAND ships at Aulis and the greatest gathering of heroes since the beginning of time. Their commander was Agamemnon, an angry bull of a man, burly as the stump of an oak, with a dark red face and eyes as cold and hard as chunks of lava—until he became enraged, when they glowed like hot coals. His voice of command was like the bellowing of a bull.

  Now when Achilles smelled a fight his blood did not heat, nor did excitement take him. A delicious chill prickled over all his body, sweet cold airs wrapped themselves about his limbs, cool fingers stroked his hair, and in his mouth was a taste like honey. He fought with gleaming chest and flashing arm and marvellously thewed leg, and he smiled his lipless smile all the while. He did not shout, except when summoning his men, but uttered a low crooning sound like a love song. Men, fighting him, felt his blade at their throats like an act of deliverance.

  Now when he saw the bull-man, Agamemnon, he felt that delicious chill touch his neck, and he knew that in all the world this man was his archenemy, even though they were fighting on the same side, and that his main problem in the war to come would be how to refrain from attacking his Commander.

  And Agamemnon gazed at Achilles with no great favor when Ulysses led the young man over to present him.

  “Hail, great Agamemnon,” said Ulysses. “I wish you to meet Achilles, and to value him as I do. For, according to prophecy, it is his courage and skill that will bring us to victory in the war to come.”

  “Oracles take delight in riddling,” said Agamemnon. “They never speak straight any more. I welcome you, young man, and look forward to seeing you display that courage and skill of which the oracle speaks.”

  “Thank you,” said Achilles.

  “The oracle holds also that you will not survive this war,” said Agamemnon. “I suppose that is why your mother hid you away among the maidens of Scyros.”

  “I suppose so,” said Achilles. “But you know how parents are. How devouring their love can be.”

  Ulysses snorted with laughter. The blood flamed in Agamemnon’s face. This was a shrewd rejoinder of Achilles’ relating to a scandal in Agamemnon’s family. Agamemnon’s father, Atreus, had committed one of the most unsavory crimes in history. He had butchered his nephews and served them up in a stew to their father, his brother, Tryestes, all so that he could seize the throne of Mycenae and rule unchallenged, the same throne that Agamemnon had inherited.

  Ulysses eyed Agamemnon closely. He knew that the man was seething with rage, and was only a hairbreadth from striking out at Achilles.

  And he saw that Achilles, lightly balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to move in any direction, was smiling his little lip-less smile.

  But Agamemnon mastered himself, and said: “Truly, Achilles, if your sword is as sharp as your tongue you should do great damage to the Trojans. In the meantime—welcome. We shall converse again when your Myrmidons arrive. Then you may report for instructions about their quartering, forage for the horses, sailing order, and so forth.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Achilles. “Thank you for your courtesy.”

  Thus, bloodshed was averted upon that first meeting. But the note of hatred struck between them was to devil the efforts of the Greeks and almost lead to their defeat.

  Next, Ulysses took the young man about the encampment and introduced him to the other great chieftains. He met Palamedes, King of Euboea, most skilled artificer since Da
edalus; and Diomedes, King of Argos, a man, it was said, who had never known fear. He was presented to the two warriors named Ajax. One was Ajax of Salamis, strongest mortal since Hercules, head and shoulders taller than Achilles. And again, the young man, measuring the giant with his eyes, felt a breath of that sweet combative chill. But he could work up no fighting wrath. For the huge man grinned down at him, and said: “Stop puffing your chest like a rooster. You and I are going to be friends, and fight only Trojans.”

  He clapped his great meaty paw on Achilles’ shoulder—a blow hard enough to cripple an ordinary man. Achilles accepted it as a friendly tap, and nodded gravely back at Ajax.

  Now all the tested warriors received the young man with marks of esteem even though he had not yet proved himself in battle. They had heard startling reports of him from his old tutor, Phoenix—a man much feared by foemen—who was there at Aulis as a member of the War Council. Phoenix had told how he had managed the education of the young Achilles. He had taken him and his elder cousin, Patroclus, onto the wild slopes of Mt. Pelion, Achilles being seven years old then, and Patroclus twelve. He had fed the younger boy on the bloody meat of courage itself, restricting his diet to the entrails of bear and wolf and lion, which Achilles had eaten greedily, but Patroclus had refused. He told how he had recruited the centaur, Cheiron, to help raise the boys, and how Cheiron had taught Achilles to run more swiftly than a staghound, how to hunt down the wild boar without the use of hounds, and to split a willow wand with his spear at a hundred yards.

  Patroclus he had tutored in the softer arts, the use of herbs and music in healing, and how to play the pipe and psaltery. At the age of thirteen, Achilles had singlehandedly slaughtered a robber band that, for years, had terrified the villagers on Mt. Pelion. He had been wounded in thigh and shoulder in this fight, and Patroclus had tended him and nursed him back to health. With such tales had Phoenix stuffed the other leaders at Aulis, so it was little wonder they were ready to extend a hearty welcome to Achilles.

  And the young warrior was overjoyed to meet his old tutor in this place, and was even happier to learn that his dear cousin and playmate, Patroclus, was sailing toward Aulis at the head of the Myrmidons.

  THE SIEGE BEGINS

  ULYSSES HAD WARNED THAT the war would be a long one, but Agamemnon, who always preferred to believe what was most convenient, was confident of a quick victory. When the Greeks landed on the Trojan beaches they met stiff resistance. A Trojan hero, Cycnus—son of Poseidon—a man who could not be wounded by sword or spear, captained the beach party and fought like a demon, almost driving the Greeks into the sea. Achilles it was who finally killed him without weapon, by twisting Cycnus’ helmet so that he was strangled by his own chinstrap.

  Then the Greeks rallied and fought their way to the Trojan wall but met so savage a defense that they had to withdraw.

  At the War Council, Ulysses said: “I was right, unfortunately. It will be a long war. Their walls are huge, their men brave, and they have at least three magnificent warriors, Prince Hector, his young brother Troilus, and his cousin Aeneas. Sheltered by such walls, led by such heroes, they are too powerful for direct assault. We shall have to lay siege. But in the meantime, by using our sea-power, we can raid the nearby islands one by one. This will strip Troy of her allies, and provide us with food and slaves.”

  It was agreed, and Achilles was named commander of the raiding parties. During the next eight years he attacked the home islands of Troy’s allies one by one, sacked their cities and took much loot and many slaves. All this time the main body of the Greeks encamped on the beach behind a stockade of pointed stakes and laid siege to the mighty city.

  But a siege is a tedious business, and quarrels flared among the men who had grown tired of the war and longed for home. The bitterest squabbles were provoked by the division of slaves. One of these almost sent the Greeks home in defeat.

  THE QUARREL

  ON ONE RAID ACHILLES captured Cressida, one of the loveliest young maidens of Troy. She was a smoky-eyed, honey-skinned girl with a low hoarse voice. When Agamemnon heard her speak at the Dividing of the Spoils he felt her voice running over the nerve-ends of his face, like a cat’s tongue licking him. He immediately claimed her as his share of the booty. Ordinarily, Achilles would have disputed this claim, and an ugly squabble would have flared, but upon this raid Achilles had captured a girl he fancied even more, a tall green-eyed maiden named Briseis. So Agamemnon’s claim was allowed and he took Cressida for his slave. She was hard to handle at first, but Agamemnon had a way with girls and soon she was content.

  But her father was not happy. His name was Chryse; he was a priest of Apollo, and a soothsayer. He came under a truce to Agamemnon’s tent and begged the release of his daughter, offering a generous ransom. But Agamemnon would have none of it. He drove her father away with harsh words. The old man, furious and humiliated, prayed to Apollo as he hobbled back toward Troy.

  “Oh, Phoebus, I implore you, curb that haughty spirit. Punish Agamemnon, who keeps my daughter in vile servitude. Today he insults your servant, Apollo, tomorrow he will insult your holy self. For he is a most arrogant Greek, overbearing and imperious, ready to affront a god should his will be questioned.”

  It suited Apollo to hear this prayer. He favored the Trojans in the war, and felt it was time to do the Greeks a mischief. So he descended that night and stood between the great wall and the Greek encampment on the beach. He shot arrows of pestilence among the tents. They were tipped with fever; they ignited the camp refuse; foul vapors caught fire. Again and again Apollo shot his arrows. Where they struck, plague burned. Man and beast sickened. In the morning they awoke to die. Horses died, and cattle. In three days the Greeks had lost half as many troops as they had in nine years of fighting.

  Ulysses urged Agamemnon to call a council. The oracle, Calchas, was consulted—because it was known that plague is sent by the gods in punishment for some affront, real or fancied, and it is always necessary to find out which god, so that the insult might be undone. But Calchas balked when he was called upon for interpretation.

  “Pardon, great king,” he said to Agamemnon. “But I would far rather you called upon another oracle.”

  “Why should we?” said Ulysses. “You’re the best we have, and the best is what we need.”

  Agamemnon said: “Read the signs, O Calchas, and tell us true.”

  “I have read the signs. And the truth will anger you. And who will protect me from your sudden wrath?”

  “I will,” said Achilles, looking at Agamemnon. “I guarantee your safety.”

  “Hear then the reason for this pestilence. Our high king and war-leader, Agamemnon, has angered Apollo by insulting his priest, Chryse, who seeks the return of his daughter, Cressida. Agamemnon’s angry refusal has kindled the radiant wrath of Phoebus who descended with a quiverful of plague darts which he flung into our tents so that we sicken and die.”

  “I don’t believe it,” roared Agamemnon.

  “It makes sense,” Achilles said. “Speak on, Calchas. Tell us how we can placate Apollo and avert this plague.”

  “The remedy is obvious,” said Calchas. “Cressida must be returned to her father, without ransom. Then a clean wind will spring from the sea blowing away the pestilence.”

  Agamemnon turned savagely upon Calchas.

  “You miserable, spiteful, croaking old raven. You have never yet in all the years I have known you spoke me a favorable auspice. Whether studying the flight of birds, examining their entrails, or casting bones, by whatever secret contrivance you read the riddle of the future, it is always to my disadvantage. In your eyes I am always angering the gods, as if they had nothing to do but perch on Olympus watching me night and day and seeking cause for anger in the actions of this one poor mortal, while they ignore everyone else on earth.

  “At Aulis you said I had angered Artemis by not invoking her aid in some hunt or other, and that it was she who had sent the northeast gale to keep us penned in the harbor an
d prevent our fleet from sailing for Troy. And it was not until you prevailed upon me to sacrifice my own eldest, dearest daughter, Iphigenia, that you were satisfied. And now … now … you wish to rob me of even a greater prize, the smoky-eyed Cressida, so much more beautiful and skillful than my own wife, Clytemnestra. Now you seek to rob me of the one prize I value after nine years of bloody toil on these beaches, bidding me tear my very heart from my body to appease Apollo. And the Royal Council agrees with you. The Chiefs agree with you. Very well, so be it. But, by the easily angered Gods, know this: I will not be left without a prize. If you take Cressida from me, I will take someone else’s beautiful and clever slave girl.”

  Achilles sprang to his feet. “And from what common pen of slaves do you expect to draw your compensation?” he cried. “In your blind and matchless greed you have forgotten that each man takes his own prize as divided according to your own unjust decrees—whereby you always get the lion’s share … or should I say the swine’s share? No, you must give up Cressida without immediate compensation. For no man here, I believe, will give up what is his own. But when we raid another rich colony, or when Troy itself finally falls, if ever it does, then you will be able to take booty that will glut even your greed.”

  “You are a mighty warrior, Achilles,” said Agamemnon. “But your spear speaks more surely than your tongue. I am High King, chosen by all of you in a choice certified by the gods. To deprive me of any jot or iota of my rights is sacrilege. Not only foolish, but impious. It is my duty to take someone else’s slave to repay me for the loss of the lovely Cressida. For a king deprived is half a king, and half a king means defeat in warfare. If I want your slave, Achilles, or Ulysses’, or one of Diomedes’, or any creature I choose, all I have to do is reach my hand and take. But that will all be decided later. For the moment I consent. Cressida shall be returned so that the plague may end.”