“Traitors! You have killed my brother! You have broken the truce! Greeks—to arms! Kill the traitors! Charge!”
The dust was churned again as the whole Greek army, moving as one man, snatched up its weapons and rushed toward the Trojan lines.
All this time, while the battle was raging back and forth, Achilles kept to his tent and did not come out. He lay on his pallet trying to shut his ears to the sound of battle. But he could not. He heard it all—war-cry and answer, challenge and reply. Spear-shock and the crash of shields; the rattle of sword against helmet, the ping of dart against breastplate. Arrows sang through the air. Men shrieked and groaned; horses neighed and bugled. This sound had always been music to him—the best sound in all the world—but now it was a simple torment. For there to be a battle going on and Achilles not in it was a thing absolutely against nature. Great sobs wrenched Achilles. But Patroclus was in the tent too, waiting with him, and he did not wish his friend to hear his grief.
So Achilles bit down on his wrist till it bled, stifling his sobs that way. At last he could bear it no longer, but arose from his bed and washed his face in the cold water that stood in a golden ewer, one he had taken in some half-forgotten raid. Oh, happy days they seemed now, before his quarrel with Agamemnon, when he could allow himself to roam the seas raiding the home-islands of Trojan allies, raging into their very fastnesses, spearing men like fish, and sacking the proud castles of their treasures—and taking many slaves.
He stood now at the portal of his tent watching the battle. He saw Diomedes sweeping up and down, and it was like some memory of himself. He groaned aloud. Patroclus came to him and put his arm around his neck.
“Old friend,” said Patroclus, “beloved comrade—I cannot see you kill yourself with grief. Forget your feud with Agamemnon. Go fight! Arm yourself and join the battle. Else regret will tear your breast more surely than enemy spear.”
“I cannot bury my feud with Agamemnon,” cried Achilles. “False friend! How can you tell me to do that? He insulted me, took Briseis. Do you think I will allow any man, though he be king a dozen times, to do such things to me? No! I would rather fight with the Trojans against the Greeks.”
“A traitor to your own kind? No, you would never be that,” said Patroclus.
“I’m a traitor to my own nature if I do not fight. And that’s worse.”
“You could never bring yourself to fight your old companions. How could you level your spear against either of the Ajaxes, or Ulysses, or Idomeneus? I do not even mention myself.”
Achilles took his friend’s head between his hands and looked deep into his eyes.
“Oh, Patroclus,” he said. “You would be surprised to know the names of those I could bring myself to fight when the battle-fury burns. I like them well—Ajax, and Diomedes, Ulysses, Idomeneus, even that crude bear, Menelaus. I have adventured with them, and raided with them, and fought the Trojans with them. I should regret killing them, perhaps, but I could manage the deed in the heat of battle. Only you, my friend, have a true hold on my esteem. You I will never harm. You I will always avenge should anyone else offer you harm. I feel myself being torn in two. I feel a fire inside my head that is scorching my very capacity to think. I feel a pain in my gut that is worse than any weapon that has pierced my armor. I don’t know what will happen to me in the days to come, but take this pledge: You are my friend, my true friend, sweet cousin and companion of my boyhood; I shall never harm you, and shall take vengeance upon anyone who does.”
He shoved Patroclus away. “Go now. I know you do not wish me to stand alone, but I pray you, go. For I do not wish you to see my grief.”
“I go,” said Patroclus. “But I shall not join the battle either until you give me leave.”
He walked off, but not far. He circled in back of the tent and stood there watching Achilles. For his heart was sodden with love for the mighty youth, and he was as loyal as a dog.
Hera and Athena watched, frowning, from their peak on Olympus as the Trojans beat back the Greeks.
“What ails you, stepdaughter?” said Hera. “You seem to be losing your touch. The strength you gave Diomedes appears to have ebbed, and with it the tide of Greek fortunes. Look at them; they’re running like rabbits.”
“It is because my brothers have broken their vow of neutrality,” said Athena angrily. “Apollo has completely restored Aeneas who was felled by Diomedes in a glorious action, and the son of Anchises wields his weapon more powerfully than ever before. And Hector has suddenly become inspired, and is raging like a wolf on the field. But it is no accident. Behind him I see the form of Ares goading the Trojans to superhuman effort.”
“Yes, Ares is chiefly to blame,” said Hera. “Although I am his mother, I must confess he is an incorrigible mischiefmaker. Apollo will mend wounds and issue edicts, but he is too proud to fight with mortals. Ares, however, exults in battle, no matter whom he is fighting. And it is he who harries the Trojans forward. Yes, it is Ares who must be driven from the field. And it is you who must do it, stepdaughter. For Zeus would never forgive me if I took up arms against my own son. He is quite hidebound in some respects.”
“Very well,” said Athena. “Then I shall do it. For many a century now I have been wanting to settle scores with that lout.”
So saying, she sped to earth and, keeping herself invisible, joined the Greeks where they had set up a defense line near their ships. The Trojans were driving ahead viciously, but the toughest Greek warriors—Ajax the Greater, Ajax the Lesser, Teucer, Ulysses, Idomeneus, Agamemnon, Menelaus—all these ferocious fighters formed knots of resistance to the Trojans, who had breached the Greek line in many places, and were advancing upon the beached ships.
Athena spoke to Diomedes, appearing before him in her own guise, but keeping herself invisible to the others.
“Son of Tydeus,” she said. “You are a great sorrow and disappointment to me. After a few hours of fighting you grow weary. You fail. You leave the field to Hector and Aeneas. It’s incredible. Standing there on Olympus I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. I did not know how to answer to mother Hera who chided, and justly, for choosing so weak a vessel to hold the beautiful rage of the gods. I am grieved, Diomedes. I am shocked and dismayed.”
By this time Diomedes’ face was wet with tears. He tore out his beard in great handfuls.
“Another word of reproof, O Athena,” he shouted, “and I shall plunge this blade into my breast. And you shall have to find another to crush with your scorn. Why do you blame me for that which is not my fault. You saw me overcoming every Trojan I met, even Pandarus, the shrewd archer, even the mighty Aeneas. Why, I even wounded his mother, Aphrodite! And how many men have dappled with ichor the radiant flesh of the goddess of love? But in the midst of these deeds I was stopped by your brother, Apollo, the sun-god himself, who warned me that I must never lift my hand against an Olympian again, threatening me with eternal torment if I disobeyed. So what am I to do? For it is your other brother, Ares, who ranges behind the Trojan lines, filling Aeneas and Hector with battle-rage, and making them invincible. Unless I lift my spear against Ares and chase him from the field he will never allow me to measure my strength with Hector and Aeneas.”
“You speak truly,” said Athena. “But Apollo cannot stop me from fighting Ares. I have the permission of mother Hera. As for Zeus, he detests his brawling son. Many a time, in aeons gone, he was moved to punish Ares himself. And although father Zeus tends to favor the Trojans I know he will not chide me overmuch if I chastise Ares. Let us go then. You will lift your spear against him, but I will ride as your charioteer and guide your spear. And I will be your buckler too when the god of war aims his gigantic lance at your breastplate. Come, brave Diomedes, we will teach the Trojans that the Greeks must prevail even though great Achilles disdains to take the field. Yes, I will be your charioteer, and guide these marvellous horses you have taken from Aeneas, and you shall be able to devote your full time to fighting.”
So saying, Athena
sprang into the chariot and took up the reins. Diomedes stood beside her couching his spear and shouting his war cry. Athena drove directly toward Ares, where he was snorting like a wild boar over a pile of dead Greeks, and despoiling them of their armor. He wished to take back to Olympus the gear of twenty men of large stature to give to Hephaestus, who would then melt the metal down and forge a breastplate and pair of greaves large enough for Ares. But when he saw the chariot approach, the somber pits of his eyes glowed with a new greed; he wanted those horses for himself. Also he wished very much to square accounts with Diomedes, who had been so terrible against the Trojans that day. He picked up his twenty-foot spear, the shaft of which was an entire ash tree, and rushed toward the chariot. It was a charge such as could batter down a city gate, but Athena reached out her mailed hand and deflected the spearhead so that it whizzed harmlessly past Diomedes, carrying Ares within easy sword-reach. Diomedes’ quick counterstroke half-gutted Ares. He fell with a horrid screech clutching his stomach. Had he been a mortal man the wound would have been fatal. As it was, he had to quit the field and fly back to Olympus. He visited Hephaestus first, who tucked his mighty guts in place, and sewed up the wound with bullhide sinew.
Then Ares stormed into Zeus’ throne-room, crying: “Justice! Justice! That harpy daughter of yours, that owl-hag Athena rides invisible as Diomedes’ charioteer, guarding him from all harm, and strengthening his hands so that he kills, kills, kills.”
“Fancy that,” said Zeus. “I had no idea that killing was so distasteful to you. These scruples seem to have developed overnight.”
“You do not understand, O Zeus. It is not only mortals he attacks. Earlier today he wounded Aphrodite. Just now he bloodied me with a lucky thrust. Me! Your son! God of Battle!”
“Who are you to complain?” shouted Zeus. “She should not be taking a direct hand in the fighting, it is true, for I have forbidden it. But you were doing the very same thing on the Trojan side. I saw you. You were disguised as Acamas, and with your own weapons were killing Greeks and despoiling them of their armor. You are equally to blame, and if I punish one I shall punish both. Besides … I think the God of war should be ashamed to publicize his defeat at the hands of his sister.”
“Sister? That’s no sister,” muttered Ares as he left the throne-room. “That’s a harpy out of hell.”
Nevertheless, Zeus sent Apollo after Ares to make sure that his wound had been properly tended, and also sent lightfooted Iris to recall Athena from the battlefield. He then issued another edict against direct intervention by any god on one side or the other.
HECTOR
THE BATTLE HAD BEGUN at dawn, and it was now the hot middle of the day. The sun hung in the sky like a brass helmet; dust hung in the air hot as metal filings. The exhausted men gasped like unwatered cattle. They could feel their flesh charring where the sun hit their armor. Many of them threw off their armor and fought naked. Shaft of spear and lance, and hilt of sword, were so slippery with sweat that they slid out of men’s hands. Without any orders being given the fighting subsided, and the armies drew off a little way from one another to await the cool of late afternoon.
During this lull Hector returned to Troy. He had two errands: First, to dig his brother Paris out of the boudoir and get him onto the battlefield; secondly, to visit his wife, Andromache.
Andromache was not at home. The servants told him she was waiting on the Scaeian Wall. He went there to find her. They embraced. She said: “You’re so hot and tired. Must you rush back to the battlefield? Can’t you stay with me awhile? Stay, only a little while, and let me make you comfortable again.”
“No, I must get back there, dearly as I should love to stay with you and pass some cool and delicious hours in your matchless company. But I am the commander, and must lead my men.”
“You look so solemn—so sad. Have you come to tell me something special?”
“I have had a vision of Troy’s defeat. And among all the scenes of carnage and disaster it drags in its wake, all I can see is one picture: You, in time to come, have been borne away by some mailed conqueror to faroff Greece. And there in Argos, or in Attica, or Sparta, I see you dressed in dull clothing, spinning at the loom, or drawing water under the eye of your mistress—who will not be partial to you for you will be too beautiful, more beautiful than she, whoever she be. And her husband, your master, will be spending his nights with you rather than with her. I see you a servant, a slave. That is what losing means—to be enslaved. And that sight of you there fills me with such sorrowful rage that I feel a giant’s strength, feel that I, personally, could interpose my body between Troy and all the Greek hordes—even if my comrades are cut down—and kill and kill until there is not one Greek left. And so the vision brings its own contradiction. And what do you make of that?”
“What do I make of that? That you are very brave, and very dear. And that I am blessed beyond all women in my husband. For you, I believe, are the mightiest man ever to bear arms, and the noblest heart ever to bear another’s grief. And when you meet Achilles, or Ajax, the gods will favor your cause, for you are living proof that their handiwork is excelling itself.”
“Thank you for those words,” said Hector. “They are the sweetest I have ever heard in all my life. It is true, whether I can conquer Achilles or not, I must challenge him to single combat. These pitched battles waste our forces too much, and we do not have as many men to spare as do the enemy. Yes, I shall fight the strong Achilles, and when I do the memory of your loving words will make a victor’s music in my ears.”
He took his infant son from the nurse’s arms. Lifting him high as if stretching him toward the heavens, he said: “Great Zeus, father of us all, hear a lesser father’s prayer. I am a warrior; some call me a hero, and, as you know, a degree of self-esteem attaches to that condition. Instead of sacrificing a bull to you then, let me sacrifice my self-esteem—which, I assure you, is as huge and hotblooded and rampaging as any bull. Let me ask you this: That when my son is grown and fights his battles, as all men must, and returns therefrom, that men will say of him only this. ‘He is a better man than his father was.’ ”
The baby was frightened by his father’s nodding horsetail plume, and burst into tears. Hector smiled and kissed him, and gave him into his mother’s arms. Then he kissed her, and said: “I must be off now, good wife. I must rout out lazy Paris and try to prevail upon him to do a bit of fighting in this war that he started. Farewell.”
But it took him a while to press through the mob. It seemed all Troy was out in the streets. Since he was their special hero, the people crowded about him, shouting questions, trying to touch him. He kept a smile on his face, but forced his way steadily through the mob. However, his son’s nurse had been so moved by his words on the wall that she had rushed off to tell everyone she could find what her master had said. By the time he reached Paris’ house all Troy was buzzing with his speech to Andromache, and no woman who heard it could refrain from bursting into tears, and thinking critically of her own husband.
He found Paris with Helen, polishing his armor.
“It’s clean enough, brother—too clean. I should prefer to see it bloodied a bit.”
“Ah, the old complaint,” murmured Paris.
“Yes, the old complaint. You do not fight enough in your behalf, Paris. You set a bad example to the troops, and create rancor among your brothers. The word has spread that you are a coward. I too have called you that in the heat of my displeasure, and yet I know that you are not. You are too proud for cowardice. What you are is irresponsible. You cannot bear the discipline of warfare. The compulsion, the iron urgency. You are like some magic child who can do anything, but views his own caprice as the basic law of the universe. Well, you must drop that. For the cruel necessity of war is upon us—a war prompted by your own desires. And you must play not only an honorable role, but a hero’s role. Zeus knows we need all the heroes we can muster.”
“You keep saying these things, Hector,” said Paris. “But I
haven’t uttered one syllable of objection. Why do you think I’m polishing my armor. I never wear it to bed. A rumor, incidentally, that is whispered about you, big brother. No, I mean to go to battle; I just want to look nice when I’m there.”
“Dear brother Hector,” said Helen. “Honorable commander. I know you think little of me. I know you consider me a shameless woman who seduced your brother and plunged Troy into a dreadful war. Nevertheless, let me say this: I, too, am always after him to do his share of fighting. I am of warrior race too, you know. In fact, it is said that a very prominent belligerent, Zeus himself, is my father. I don’t know how much truth there is in it, but they say he wooed my mother in the shape of a swan, and that I was born from a swan’s egg—which accounts for my complexion.”
She smiled at Hector, and he could find no word of reproach to say to her. In the blaze of Helen’s smile no man could remain wrathful. Even iron Hector was not immune.
“And I heard what you said to Andromache,” said Helen. A single pearly tear trembled on her eyelash without falling. “I think it was the most beautiful thing any man has ever said to any wife. This scoundrel here could never in a million years find such sentiments on his tongue, and he is famous for sweet speech. Truly the thought of being enslaved is something that haunts every Trojan woman and devils every warrior.”
The Trojan War Page 5