The Trojan War

by Bernard Evslin

  “Truly,” drawled Paris. “No man likes to think of his wife being enslaved by anyone but himself. Quite intolerable.”

  “See … he jokes even at that,” cried Helen. “What is one to do with him?”

  “Make a soldier of him,” growled Hector. “Come on, pretty-boy, enough talk—let’s fight.”

  Paris knelt before Helen, took both her hands, turned them over, and kissed each palm. Then he closed her hands.

  “Keep these until I come again.”

  The sight of Hector and Paris emerging from the gate, fresh and shining, brought new heart to the Trojans, and they charged the Greek positions again. Led by Hector, Paris, and Aeneas, they wrought great havoc among the enemy, who lost some of their best warriors in that flurry.

  Athena, despite Zeus’ edict, flew down from Olympus to help the Greeks. This time she was intercepted by Apollo, who said:

  “No, sister, you must not. You are Zeus’ favorite daughter, as everyone knows, and you should be the last to flout his commands. You see that I am keeping aloof from the battle, and so must you.”

  “I can’t,” cried Athena. “I won’t! Too many Greeks are being killed.”

  “Come away. Listen to me. I have a plan to end this slaughter—without any direct intercession on our part.”

  Athena joined Apollo under a huge oak tree.

  “Owl-goddess,” he said. “We can stop this killing by arranging that the battle be settled through single combat. This was attempted earlier in the day when Paris challenged Menelaus, but Paris fled, and the idea came to nought. Now, however, we shall have great Hector issue the challenge, and you may be sure that he will fight to the finish.”

  “I agree,” said Athena. “Let us send Hector the idea.”

  Gods send ideas to men in different ways. But whatever way they choose it is necessary to create the illusion of personal authorship—that is, that each man believe the idea to be his own. The gods’ idea came to Hector as a dart of sunlight glancing off the tall helm of Ajax which towered above his companions. Seeing that high helmet gleam Hector said to Paris:

  “Listen, brother, I have an idea.”

  Paris was willing enough to stop fighting and listen. Aeneas drew close too. So did the other sons of Priam. And the fighting was eased again as the Trojans held a council on the field.

  “We have fought valiantly this day,” said Hector. “And have prevented the Greeks from storming our walls, which was their intention this morning. So, in a sense, we have won the battle. In another sense we have not. Nor can we win any head-to-head battle with the Greeks. For if our losses be equal or anywhere near equal they will contribute toward our final defeat. The Greeks outnumber us, and we dare not match their losses, or even match half their losses, or by and by we shall find ourselves with no fighting men at all while they will have a force capable of taking the city. What I propose then is this: That I challenge one of their champions to single combat, and that the honors of the day rest upon the result. If I win I shall do this each day until either I shall have run through all their champions and so dishearten them that they must depart, or I myself am killed, leaving the decisions to someone else. Let me add that the absence of Achilles should be no little help to this project.”

  His words met with general favor. He stepped in front of the Trojan lines, and addressed the Greeks.

  “Honorable foemen,” he said, “you have fought long and well upon this day, and have killed many of us. We have fought no less honorably and have killed many of you. But the sun sinks now and we have supplied the vultures with food enough for this day. Let me be a surrogate for the Trojan deaths, and choose you a champion who will meet me and be a surrogate for your deaths. Upon our combat let rest the honors of the day. If I lose, the victor may strip me of my armor, nor will any of my brothers oppose him. All I ask is that my body be returned to my father, Priam, for decent burning. But if the gods favor me in this combat, then I will act in the same way toward my fallen foe. Come, then—let me hear! Who of you will fight me? I await your reply.”

  His voice blared like a trumpet across the lines, leaving silence after it. The Greek champions looked at each other. No one, it seemed, was rushing to volunteer. Finally, Menelaus dragged himself to his feet, and said:

  “Well, I won one duel today. Maybe this is my day for winning. If none of you offers to fight him, then I must.”

  But Agamemnon pulled him back.

  “No, brother, not you. In plain words, if you fight Hector, you will die. The man belongs with the greatest warriors of all time. Everyone acknowledges this. Even our own Achilles, for all his murderous pride, has never seen fit to engage Hector in single combat.”

  “Someone must fight him!” cried Menelaus. “If not I, then someone else.”

  “For shame!” cried old Nestor, rising and berating them in his dry voice like an angry cricket. “For shame … How the generations have shrunk! There were mighty men in my day. How they would laugh and scoff to see you sitting here like a circle of schoolboys awaiting the master’s rod! Come … if there is no one to volunteer then we must draw lots and let the gods choose.”

  He took chips of wood and inscribed the names of the Greek champions—nine of them—the two Ajaxes, Teucer, Idomeneus, Diomedes, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Nestor’s own son, Antilochus, a very skillful charioteer. He shook the chips in his helmet, then selected one, read the name inscribed in a piercing voice.

  “Ajax,” he said. “Ajax of Salamis. Known as the Great Ajax.”

  To Hector, Ajax looked as big as Ares prowling out of the Greek lines. The westering sun cast his gigantic shadow back over the massed Greeks and, beyond them, over the beaked ships drawn up on the strand. His shield looked enormous as a chariot wheel. It was made of nine bullhides bound in brass. And he was using Ares’ own spear, twenty-feet long, its shaft made of a single ash-tree, which he had picked up after the god of war had dropped it upon being wounded by Diomedes. Ajax was the only mortal large enough to wield this spear.

  Hector did not wish to give Ajax a chance to hurl that huge spear, so he cast his own javelin first. It sped through the air and hit Ajax’s spear, shattering its brass boss and penetrating all but the last bullhide. Ajax shivered like a tree under the blow of a woodman’s axe, but he steadied himself, drew back his knotted arm and hurled Ares’ spear. Now Hector was using a smaller shield—also made of bullhide bound in brass. He preferred a shield he could move about to cover himself rather than one to hide behind, because he depended more on speed and agility than size. When he saw the ash-tree lance hurtling through the air toward him he lifted his shield, which was immediately shattered by the spear. His left arm fell to his side, numb. But he swerved his body, avoiding the spearhead, and suffered only a scratch on his shoulder. But that cut spurted blood, and the Trojans groaned.

  Ajax did not pose on his followthrough, but let it take him into a wild-boar rush upon his foe—his signature in battle. Hector barely had time to scoop up a boulder. He did not have time to hurl it, only bowled it across the ground. He cast it so skillfully that it took Ajax’s legs out from under him, and the big man sprawled on the ground. Then Hector whipped out his sword and rushed toward the fallen Ajax to cut off his head.

  Ajax, seeing him come, picked up the boulder which had felled him and, still lying on his back, hurled it at Hector. It hit him on the breastplate and knocked him off his feet. Both men pulled themselves up and stepped toward each other, swords flashing. Blades clanged against breastplate and helmet. Ajax stood still, pivoting, aiming huge scything blows as Hector circled him, half-crouched, darting in and out, using edge and point. Both men were bruised, shaken, and bloody. Neither yet had the advantage.

  It was at this point that Apollo intervened—without meaning to. He had not intended to meddle in the fighting. There had always been some coldness between him and father Zeus, and he did not dare defy the high god’s orders the way Athena did. So, after his consultation with the owl-goddess, which had
resulted in Hector’s challenge and Ajax’s reply, he had flown off to intercept his sun-chariot, which, in his absence, was being driven by Helios, his charioteer. The sun-god took Helios’ place in the chariot, gathered the reins in one hand, and whipped up the fire-maned stallions. They set off in a swinging trot across the blue meadow of the sky, heading toward its western rim.

  But when Apollo heard the shouting of Greek and Trojan far below, heard the clang of sword against shield, he dipped lower to watch the fighting. The duel was so exciting, he grew so fascinated that, for the first time in memory, he neglected his duties as the sun’s coachman and allowed the stallions to stay in one spot grazing on the fluffy white cloud-blossoms. He kept the chariot reined in, burning a hole in the air, charring the earth below … until he smelled something burning. He saw great clouds of smoke pierced by dancing flames where the lingering coach had set forests ablaze. He put his horses to a gallop, leaving that place as quickly as he could, and fled, bright as a comet, toward the stables of night. But the land below had been charred over great distances, making a waste place which, today, men call the Sahara.

  His gallop westward had drawn a curtain of night across the earth. Greek and Trojan, amazed, saw the afternoon sun drop like a red-hot coal, hissing, into the sea beyond the western wall of the city. Hector and Ajax groped for each other in darkness.

  Heralds bearing long willow wands rushed forth from the Trojan lines and the Greek lines, calling:

  “Night! Night! Sudden night! Leave off fighting and seek your tents, for the light has flown.”

  This was the way they ended battles in those days.

  Hector and Ajax stopped fighting. They felt the night wind on their hot brows. All at once, these duelling warriors who had avoided killing each other only by the blunder of a god, felt closer to each other than to anyone else on earth.

  “Noble Hector,” said Ajax, “I have never met a worthier foe.”

  “Nor have I, sir,” said Hector. “Truly I am glad that the light was so magically brief. I welcome this pause.”

  “We shall resume tomorrow, no doubt,” said Ajax. “In the meantime let us sleep. But, pray, take this as a gift and a remembrance.”

  He unbuckled a purple belt from about his waist. It was of thick, soft wool embroidered in gold and black with the figures of dolphins that play off Salamis, and do odd favors for men.

  “Thank you, great Ajax. It is a beautiful cincture; I shall wear it proudly. But take you this. It has never been yielded, sir, but now it is freely given.”

  Hector, then, whom a generous gesture always moved to an excess of generosity in return, handed Ajax his silver-hilted sword. The two warriors embraced, turned, and went back to their own lines as the first stars trembled steel-blue in the black sky.

  THUNDER ON THE RIGHT

  MORNING LIGHT REVEALED THE battlefield so littered with corpses that Greek and Trojan agreed to a truce so that they might honor their dead, build pyres, offer to the gods, and consign the bodies to decent flame.

  That morning, too, Zeus called a council of the gods on Olympus. All the members of the Pantheon were required to attend.

  Zeus spoke: “Brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, wife … Many a time have I warned you, gathered here in sacred convocation, and individually to your faces, that I permit no direct intercession on the part of any god in the war below. We may keep our favorites, we may grant godlike dispensations and civilities from the privilege of our godheads, but we are not permitted to descend upon the field and actually handle arms like brawling mortals. Yet, as often as I have issued my edicts, that many times have they been disobeyed.

  “Gods … I am not accustomed to being disobeyed. The very notion violates not only my principles but my identity. There can be no Zeus where there is defiance of Zeus. You have violated my decrees, some of you, and have intervened on both sides of the battle. Only yesterday my eyes were offended by the unseemly spectacle of brother and sister actually spearing each other on the reeking plain. Do you not know that this is the way that gods destroy themselves? Not by being conquered, not by invasion, through no act of foe, but by stooping beneath themselves—by behaving like mortals. To behave like a mortal is to forfeit immortality. To behave like that animal called man is to forfeit divinity. What is mankind to think when it sees Athena fighting with Ares—in other words, Wisdom in conflict with Warfare? Man seeing this can no longer be either wise or warlike. And since this race of man was created for our edification and amusement, such a falling away from the great creative principles of survival will provide us with an earthful of dull automata whose antics we will find most boring through eternity.

  “I repeat my edict then, and for the last time. If I catch any of you, and I mean anyone, no matter who he is or what high domain he rules, if I catch any god or goddess directly aiding either Greek or Trojan, then I shall take that offender and cast him or her down into the depths of hell. Yes, I will plunge that one into the blackness of Hades. There I will fork him with the roots of a mountain, as a boy catches a snake in a cleft stick, so that he cannot budge, but must lie there with giant worms passing in and out of each eye-socket … still alive, still possessing all his strength, all his desires, but unable to move, unable to turn or shift, unable to be comforted. And this through eternity … Any questions?”

  There was only silence.

  Finally, Poseidon, who always stood on his dignity with his brother, Zeus, said: “Really … these mortals and their affairs are so petty. So unsavory. I don’t see how any god can concern himself overmuch with this breed. Oh, we play favorites, to be sure. I suppose that I tend to prefer the Trojans simply because the Greeks have offended me more in times past. And yet … really, to choose between them would be like discriminating among columns of ants as they converge upon a breadcrumb one has shaken from one’s board.”

  Then, casting a sidelong glance at Zeus, he continued:

  “Look at them now. Those Greeks are so arrogant and impious. Why they are building their funeral barrows and none of them has thought to sacrifice to Zeus, Lord of Life. Have the Trojans sacrificed to you, brother? Oh, yes, I believe they are doing so now. Aren’t those white bulls they are slaughtering? Yes. Well, as I said, little there is to choose between them, yet the Trojans do seem a bit more courteous. But for a god to intercede? Folly …”

  Poseidon arose, shook the billows of his green garments, combed his beard with his fingers, and struck three times with his trident upon the marble floor, summoning a tidal wave which curled its awful cold, green tongue over Olympus. He slipped into the cusp of that enormous wave, and upon his command it subsided, rolling him down into the ocean depths where stood his castle of coral and pearl. But the sea-god left behind him, slyly kindled, a wrath in the heart of Zeus, because he had been given the idea that the Greeks had neglected sacrificing to him.

  Dismissing the council after his tirade against intervention, Zeus decided to do a little something himself to discomfit the Greeks. He translated himself to Mt. Ida where he had a summer home. He sat on the peak of Ida looking down upon the battlefield. Poseidon’s gibe had worked; he was full of rancor against the Greeks. Now Mt. Ida is to the north of Troy, and the Trojans faced westward as they tried to drive the Greeks into the sea, so that when Zeus thundered he thundered from the Trojan right, an ancient sign of good fortune. When Hector heard the thundering, he leaped to his feet and cried:

  “Enough of truce, brothers! I hear thunder on the right! Hear it? It is a sign from Zeus; he favors us in the battle to come. So let it begin! To the attack!”

  The Trojans armed themselves and began a furious attack upon the Greek positions, driving the Greeks backward upon their ships. Diomedes tried to lead a counterattack, and indeed breached the Trojan lines. His chariot was drawn by the marvellous team of Aeneas, and this get of the sun-stallions was faster than any horses ever foaled. But as he sped toward Hector, spear poised, Zeus spotted him, and hurled his lightning bolt. Thunder crashed. Lightning str
uck directly in front of Diomedes’ chariot. There was an eerie flash, a suffocating smell of sulphur. The horses reared. Diomedes tried to whip them through the smoke, but Zeus threw another thunderbolt. Again the heavens crashed on the Trojans’ right flank; again the searing flash of lightning in Diomedes’ path; again the sulphur stench. The stallions reared again, whinnying in fright. And Diomedes realized that Zeus had decided to favor the Trojans that day, or that hour. He reined in his steeds and drove back to the Greek lines.

  Hector led another savage charge toward the ships. They were protected by a deep ditch, called a fosse. Behind the ditch were earthworks of sand. On top of the sand hummocks, and entrenched behind them, were Greeks. Hector and his brothers began to throw rocks into the fosse, and to throw planks across it, so that they could cross over. Sword in hand they fought their way over their rude bridges and began to climb the earthworks.

  Watching from Olympus, Hera cried:

  “My Greeks are being defeated! I can’t bear the sight of it! Will no god help me? Then I must go alone to save them.”

  But Apollo said: “No, stepmother, it would not be prudent. Do not tempt the wrath of Zeus. Every word he said to us this morning was freighted with the promise of eternal humiliation and torment for the god who would defy him. I know him well. You should know him better. If he sees you crossing the sky in your chariot he will transfix you with a lightning bolt. Alas, I know those lightning bolts; I know how they can kill, for did he not slay two of my sons? You remember Phaeton, who borrowed my sun-chariot, and, careless youthful impetuous driver that he was, drove too high, too low, alternately scorching and freezing the earth. Yes, Zeus toppled him from his chariot with one cast of his fiery spear. And there was some justice to it, I suppose; it is the duty of Zeus to protect his realms. But how cruelly and with what little cause did he send his shaft through my son, Asclepius, the marvellous physician, whose only transgression was that he saved so many of his patients from death that it displeased dark Hades, King of the Underworld, who saw himself being deprived of clients, and complained to his brother, Zeus. And Zeus complied by killing my wonderful son. So, stepmother, I beg you, do not dare that awful wrath. Do not attempt to help the Greeks. It is not their day today. Return to your peak, and abide the question.”