The struggle continued while physicians tended the painful wound of Paris. At nightfall the Trojans went into their city, and the Danai returned to their ships. Paris moaned through the darkness. He could not sleep. The shaft had pierced to the marrow, and the poison which tipped the arrows of Heracles had blackened the wound with decay. The physicians could not help him, though they tried every known means to lessen his pain. Then, in his great anguish, Paris recalled an oracle which had said that in his utmost need only Oenone, the wife he had put aside, could enable him to escape death. He had spent serene and happy days with her when he was still a shepherd, pasturing his flock on the slopes of Ida. When he left for Greece, she herself had told him of the oracle. And so now he had himself carried up Mount Ida where Oenone still lived, but he was reluctant and full of qualms. Birds of ill omen croaked from the trees as his servants climbed toward the peak with him. Their voices filled him with horror, but his will to live was so strong that he tried to ignore them. When they reached Oenone’s house, he fell at the feet of the wife he had deserted. “Do not hate me now, in my agony,” he cried. “I left you only because it was the will of the Fates that I go to Helen. I wish I had died before bringing her to my father’s palace! But now I implore you by the gods, by the love we bore each other, pity me and put balm on my wound, for you yourself once predicted that you alone would be able to save my life.”
But his words did not soften Oenone. “How dare you come to me, whom you abandoned and left to loneliness and sorrow, while you took pleasure in Helen’s eternal youth!” she said angrily. “Why don’t you go and fall at her feet and ask her to help you? For you certainly will not move my spirit with your weeping and lamenting.” And she let him go from her house, not dreaming that her own fate was bound to his. He leaned heavily on his servants and dragged himself painfully away. They carried him down the wooded slopes of Ida, and Hera on Olympus revelled in his despair. Before he reached the foot of the mountain, he died of his poisoned wound, and Helen never saw him again.
A shepherd brought his mother Hecuba word of his death. Her knees shook at this message, and, losing consciousness, she fell to the ground. But Priam heard nothing of this fresh misfortune. He sat at the grave of Hector, lost in grief, and did not know what went on in the world. Helen, on the other hand, burst into tears, but her sadness was less for her husband than for herself, and she was confused by a feeling of guilt she had long suppressed.
Oenone, alone in her house, far from the city of Troy, was seized with deep remorse. Now she permitted herself to remember Paris in the freshness of youth, and the delights of their young love. As the ice in the woods and the sunless gorges thaws at the soft breath of the west wind and flows in swift streams, so her harshness melted in sorrow, and tears poured from her eyes. She sprang from her couch, tore open the door, and rushed out like a tempest. From cliff to cliff she hurried through the night, over jagged rocks and mountain streams. Pityingly Selene looked down at her from the dark blue sky and shed light on her path. At last she reached that part of the woods where the body of her husband lay on a pyre. The logs burst into flame, and the shepherds of that region stood around, paying honor to their friend and prince. When Oenone saw Paris dead, she was speechless with grief, and veiling her lovely face in her gown, she cast herself on the pyre. Before anyone could move to help her, her hair had caught fire, and with her husband she was consumed in the flames.
THE STORMING OF TROY
While this was taking place on the slopes of Ida, the two armies had resumed the fight. Apollo breathed courage into Aeneas, son of Anchises, and Eurymachus, son of Antenor, and they drove the Achaeans back. They suffered great losses, and Neoptolemus rallied his men with almost superhuman effort. But he could not stop the Trojans until Pallas Athene herself came to his help. Now Aphrodite also took part in the battle, for she feared for the life of Aeneas, her son. Finally she hid him in dense mist and bore him away from the battlefield.
Only a few Trojans escaped death, and these retreated to their city, wounded and exhausted. Weeping women and children took their bloodstained weapons from them and loosened their heavy cuirasses, and physicians hastened to their aid. The Danai too were tired and weakened, for they had defeated their enemies only after a long and desperate struggle. But the next morning they woke refreshed. Leaving a guard with their wounded, they marched courageously toward the walls of Troy. They distributed their forces, so that one battalion was stationed at each gate. But the Trojans resisted from every part of the wall and from every tower. The Scaean Gates bore the brunt of the attack. Sthenelus, son of Capaneus, and Diomedes were the first to rush against it. But tireless Deiphobus and strong Polites, with many others, fended their foes off with arrows and stones, and their shields and helmets rang with the striking missiles. Neoptolemus fought at the Idaean Gates. His Myrmidons were experienced in all the methods of storming a wall. On this part of the ramparts Helenus and Agenor kindled the hearts of the Trojans and fought for their city. Those gates which led to the plain and the Argive camp had been assigned to Eurypylus and Odysseus. They attacked again and again, but Aeneas kept them at a distance by incessantly hurling great stones at them. Teucer, meanwhile, fought on the banks of the Simois. So the fighting went on everywhere, and there was no decisive action. Finally Odysseus had a happy thought. He had his warriors lift up their shields so that they formed a compact and vaulted roof under which the men went forward, keeping close to each other. And now the stones and arrows and javelins launched from the walls rained on the shields without wounding a single man. In this way, like a solid mass of threatening cloud, they approached the walls. The earth groaned beneath their steps, the dust whirled about their heads, and under the roof of shields their talk sounded like the buzzing of bees in a hive. The hearts of the sons of Atreus brimmed with joy when they saw this unshakable procession. They urged their men forward toward all the gates and prepared to lift them from their hinges or batter them in with two-edged axes. The new invention of Odysseus seemed to assure victory.
But the gods who sided with the Trojans put new and greater strength into the arms of Aeneas. With both hands he grasped an enormous stone and hurled it down on the roof of shields with desperate fury. This stone caused disaster to the besiegers, and they fell like mountain goats mowed down by a tumbling rock. But Aeneas stood on the wall, his limbs swelling with strength, and his armor flashed like lightning. Beside him was Ares, hidden in cloud, and every time Aeneas cast a missile the war-god guided it, spreading terror and death among the Achaeans. Through it all Aeneas kept sounding his battle cry, firing his men to action, while down below Neoptolemus shouted to his Myrmidons to stand fast. And so they fought all day without respite.
The Argives were luckier at another part of the wall, where Ajax of Locris swept the defenders down with his arrows and spears. He actually cleared a space, so that Alcimedon, his comrade-in-arms, set up a ladder and began to climb it, trusting to his youth and courage. He held his shield over his head. But Aeneas had been watching him from far off, and just as he mounted the topmost rung, just as his first and last glance fell on the city of Troy, he was hit in the forehead by a stone flung by the powerful hand of the son of Anchises. The ladder broke under the impact of the falling hero. He whirled through space like an arrow shot from the bow and died before he struck the ground. The men of Locris cried out when they saw him lying there crushed and mangled.
Now Philoctetes fixed his eyes on the son of Anchises, who was raging along the wall like a wild beast. He aimed one of his inescapable arrows at him, but only scratched the leather of his shield and instead felled Medon, who dropped from the rampart like quarry shot down by the huntsman. In return, Aeneas cast a stone at Toxaechmes, the bold friend of Philoctetes, and cracked his skull. Furiously Philoctetes looked up at his foe and exclaimed: “Aeneas! You think yourself brave when you throw down stones from your post on the tower. But any weak woman could do as well. If you are a man, come out of the gate in full armor and measu
re your strength and skill in the use of bow and lance with me, the son of Poeas!” The Trojan did not stop to reply, for he was summoned to another part of the wall which was endangered at that moment, and Philoctetes too was drawn back into the battle.
THE WOODEN HORSE
For a long time the Argives fought for the gates and walls of Troy, but they were repulsed on all sides. Then Calchas summoned the heroes to an assembly, and this is what he told them: “The hardships you are going through are utterly in vain. You will never take Troy by force. It would be far better to devise some ruse to accomplish your purpose. Yesterday I saw a sign—a falcon chasing a dove which deftly slipped into a cleft in a rock. For a long time her pursuer waited in front of the crack, but she did not come out. Then he hid in a bush nearby, and the foolish little dove fluttered out unsuspectingly. Thereupon the falcon swooped down on her and clutched her in his talons. Let us follow the bird’s example. Let us stop fighting for Troy and see what can be achieved by craft.”
When Calchas had finished, the heroes tried to think of some scheme or other to end this grim war, but they racked their brains to no purpose. Finally Odysseus had a clever idea. “Let us build an enormous wooden horse and hide in its belly as many of the bravest Argives as it will hold. The rest shall take the ships to the island of Tenedos. Before sailing, they must burn everything in the camp, so that the Trojans see the fire and smoke from their towers, forget caution, and scatter over the field. But one of us—and it must be one whom the Trojans do not know by sight—shall go to Troy pretending he is a fugitive, and tell them that he has escaped the Achaeans who were going to slaughter him as a victim to insure their safe return home. He shall say that he hid under the wooden horse which the Argives had dedicated to Pallas Athene, the enemy of the Trojans, and crawled out only after the ships had left. The man who undertakes this must be able to repeat this story in answer to all questions the Trojans will put to him, and speak with such a semblance of truth that they forget their suspicions. They will then pity the poor stranger and take him into their city. There he shall see to it that the Trojans drag the wooden horse inside the gates. When our enemies are asleep, he shall give us a sign we have agreed on. We will rush out of the horse, signal to our friends in Tenedos with a burning torch, and destroy the city with fire and sword.”
When Odysseus had finished unfolding his plan, all praised his inventiveness. Calchas was loudest in expressing his approval, for shrewd Odysseus had hit on a scheme exactly in keeping with the soothsayer’s wish. He drew the attention of the assembly to favorable omens read from the flight of birds, and to the sound of thunder in heaven which signified the consent of Zeus. The Argives were just going to begin building the horse when the son of Achilles rose and said: “Calchas! Brave men face their enemies in open warfare! Let the Trojans be cowards and fight down from their towers and walls. But we surely must not take to hidden ruse or to any method but pitched battle. That is the only way to prove that we are better men.”
His voice rang with courage and fearlessness, and even Odysseus was forced to admire his unbroken strength and pride. But he retorted: “You are the noble son of a noble father, and you have spoken like a hero. But remember that even your father, who matched the gods in power and daring, was unable to shatter these massive fortifications. Not all things can be achieved by courage alone. And so I beg you and all you other heroes to accept the counsel of Calchas and get to work at once to carry out my project.”
Everyone except Philoctetes applauded the son of Laertes. The son of Poeas, however, sided with Neoptolemus, for he craved battle, and his heart was far from sated. In the end these two almost persuaded the rest of the Danai. But Zeus showed his disapproval and anger. Lightning flashed, and thunder shook the earth at the very feet of the Argives, so that they could not but understand that Zeus favored the plan of Calchas and the wily son of Laertes. And so Neoptolemus and Philoctetes yielded, though with inner reluctance.
They all returned to the ships, but before beginning the work they gave themselves up to deep refreshing sleep. And at midnight Athene sent a dream to Epeius, an Argive hero. She ordered him, who was skilled and deft with his hands, to build the great horse, promising her help, so that it might quickly be completed. The hero recognized the goddess. Joyfully he sprang up from his couch. He thought of only one thing—building the horse—and he pondered how to accomplish the task which had been set him.
At break of day, he told the Argives of the dream he had had. Instantly the sons of Atreus sent men to the slopes of Ida and had them cut the tallest trees. These were quickly dragged to the Hellespont, and there many young men offered to help Epeius. Some of them chopped the branches from the trunks. Others sawed the timbers. Epeius himself shaped the horse. First he carved the feet, then the belly. Over this he arched the back. Then he formed the flanks, and the neck with a mane, so delicately fashioned that it seemed to flutter in the wind. The ears were pointed, and the eyes sparkled with life. The whole horse seemed to breathe and move. With Athene’s help, all this was finished in only three days, and the entire host marvelled at the great work of art made by Epeius. They expected to hear it neigh at any moment. But the artist lifted his hands to heaven and prayed before the army: “Hear me, Pallas Athene, great goddess! Save your horse and save me!” And all the Achaeans joined in his prayer.
The Trojans remained quietly behind their walls, weary and frightened by what they had suffered at the hands of the Argives. But up on Olympus there was great tumult. For now that Troy’s doom was sealed the gods divided into two factions, the one favorable, the other hostile to the Argives. They descended to earth and stood in battle array on the shores of the Xanthus. But no mortal could see them. Even the deities of the sea joined the ranks of the immortals. The Nereids who were kin to Achilles sided with the Argives. Other gods of the ocean took the part of Troy, and they lashed the waves to angry crests and drove them toward the ships and the horse. Had Fate permitted, they would have destroyed both. In the meantime the fight on the plain had begun. Ares rushed at Athene. This was a sign for the rest, and soon all the gods were joined in conflict. Their golden armor rang at every move, and the sea surged and pounded on the sand. Under the feet of the immortals the whole earth quaked, and their battle cry was so piercing that it reached the underworld, and the very Titans trembled in Tartarus.
Now the gods had chosen the moment for battle at a time when Zeus was away on a journey. He had gone to the cave of Tethys and the waters of Oceanus at the utmost edge of the earth. But even at so great a distance his keen spirit knew everything that was happening before Troy. Hardly had he grown aware of the battle of the gods before he returned to Olympus, borne by the four winds. Iris was his charioteer, and his steeds reached the goal in an instant. With swift, strong hands he flashed lightning upon the gods below, and they dropped their arms and stood motionless. Themis, the goddess of justice, the only one of the immortals who had not taken part in the fight, went down to them and proclaimed that Zeus was resolved to destroy them unless they obeyed his will and gave up their struggle with one another. And now, fearing for their immortality, they subdued the enmity in their hearts and returned to their homes, some to heaven, others into the depths of the sea.
While this was going on, the wooden horse had been completed, and Odysseus rose in the assembly. “The time has come,” he said gravely. “Now, O leaders of the Danai, we shall see who is really strong and fearless. For now we must enter the belly of this horse and go toward the unknown. Believe me, it takes more courage to crawl into this hiding place than to face the foe in open battle. So let only the very bravest come. The rest can sail to Tenedos. Only one unafraid man must remain near the horse and do as I have counselled. Who will volunteer for this?”
No one came forward. The heroes hesitated. Then Sinon went up to Odysseus and said: “I am ready to do what must be done! Let the Trojans maltreat me! Let them throw me into fire alive! My decision is made!” His words were greeted with jubilant shout
s, and many an old hero said to himself: “Who is this young man? We have never even heard his name! He has no particular deed to his credit. He must be possessed of a demon who wants to destroy either us or the Trojans.”
But Nestor rose and encouraged the Danai. “Let us marshal all our strength,” he cried. “For the gods have placed in our hands the means of putting an end to ten years of hardship. Quickly now! Into the horse! My old limbs feel as strong as when I wanted to board Jason’s Argo, and I would have done so, had not King Pelias held me back.”
So speaking, the old man attempted to precede all the rest through the wooden door let into the horse’s belly, but Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, implored him to leave this honor to him who was young, and content himself with guiding the others to Tenedos. It was difficult to persuade Nestor, but at last he gave in, and Neoptolemus, in full armor, was first to enter the hollow horse. After him came Menelaus, Diomedes, Sthenelus, and Odysseus. Then Philoctetes, Ajax, Idomeneus, Meriones, Podalirius, Eurymachus, Antimachus, Agapenor, and as many others as the wooden belly would hold. Last to enter was Epeius, the maker of the horse. When he too was inside, he pulled the ladders up after him, drew them into the opening, shut the door, and bolted it from within. In utter darkness and deep silence the heroes huddled in the horse, not knowing what awaited them, whether victory or death.
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