Troy

by Stephen Fry

  He bowed before the king and queen, unable to conceal his astonishment at the sight of the baby in Hecuba’s arms.

  ‘I had not heard the happy news that a new prince or princess had come into the world,’ he said. ‘No bells were sounded, no heralds proclaimed the birth.’

  ‘No one knows,’ said Hecuba. ‘And no one must ever know.’

  ‘This baby must die,’ said Priam.

  Agelaus stared. ‘Sire?’

  ‘For the sake of Troy, he must,’ said Hecuba. ‘Take him away to Mount Ida. Kill him quickly and mercifully. Consign his body to the underworld with all proper prayers and sacrifices.’

  ‘And when you have done so, bring us proof that he is dead,’ said Priam. ‘Only when we know it is done can we begin to mourn.’

  Agelaus looked at his king and queen, both of whom were weeping. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

  ‘We would not ask you to do so terrible a thing,’ said Priam, laying a hand on the herdsman’s shoulder, ‘you know we would not, if the survival of us all did not depend upon it.’

  Agelaus took the child from Hecuba’s arms, put him in the leather bag he carried on his back and made his way up to his stone cottage on Mount Ida.

  Looking down into the child’s sweet face he found that he was no more able than Priam or Hecuba to kill something so entirely beautiful. So he climbed high above Ida’s treeline and left the baby lying naked, squealing and alone in a rocky cleft on the cold mountainside.

  ‘The wild beasts will come soon enough to do what I cannot,’ he said to himself as he trudged heavily back down. ‘No one can say that Agelaus murdered a royal child.’

  No sooner had he disappeared from view than a she-bear – alerted by unfamiliar sounds and smells – lurched round the corner, sniffing the air and licking her lips.

  As luck would have it – Luck? No, Fate, Providence, Destiny … Doom, perhaps, but not Luck, certainly not Luck. As Providence ordained, then, this bear had just that morning lost her newborn cub to a pack of wolves. She leaned down, gave the squealing baby one long lick with her huge tongue, picked it up and pushed it to her breast.

  Some days later Agelaus climbed back up to view the body and take some proof to the king and queen that their son was dead.

  He could not believe his eyes when he saw the baby kicking and babbling, healthy and happy.

  ‘Alive! Pink and plump as a prize piglet!’ He took the child up and tucked him into his leather bag. ‘The gods want you to live, my boy, and who am I to fly in the face of the gods?’

  As he slung the bag over his back and turned to go down the hillside, a huge bear reared up from behind a rock and blocked his path. Agelaus froze in fear as its growling rose into a roar, but the baby lifted its head from the bag with a gurgling chuckle and the bear dropped down on all fours, gave one long, loud, mournful howl and lumbered away.

  Back at his cottage, Agelaus placed the infant on the table and looked him in the eye. ‘Hungry, my little one?’

  He took goat’s milk from a pitcher and poured a small amount into a tightly woven woollen sack which he gently pressed to the baby’s lips. He watched the child suck and guzzle until it could take no more.

  There was no doubt about it, Agelaus would raise him as his own. But first he had to fulfil the promise he had made to Priam and Hecuba. They had insisted upon evidence that their boy was dead.

  It so happened that Agelaus’s best sheep-herding bitch had given birth to five puppies that very morning, one of which was struggling feebly, too sickly to fight for the nipple and certain to die before the day was out. Agelaus found this runt, drowned it quickly in a water trough and cut out its tongue.

  He took one last look at his new charge before starting back down for Troy. ‘You stay here, my little backpack boy,’ he whispered. ‘I shan’t be long.’

  Priam and Hecuba looked at the severed tongue and their eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Take it and bury it with the rest of him,’ said Hecuba. ‘You made all the correct sacrifices?’

  ‘Everything was done according to the proper laws.’

  ‘It shall be given out that a royal prince died in childbirth,’ said Priam. ‘Funeral games will be held in his honour on this day every year in perpetuity.’

  THE TWINKLING HERDSMAN

  Agelaus told his friends and fellow herders that the baby he was rearing had been left on the steps of the small temple to Hermes that stood in the foothills of the mountain. The story was easily accepted; such occurrences were common enough. Unable to think of a name for his adopted son, Agelaus continued to call him ‘little backpack’. The Greek for backpack is pera, and the boy’s name as he grew up was somehow mangled over time into PARIS.

  On the slopes of Mount Ida, Paris grew into a beautiful and highly intelligent boy, youth and young man. No herdsman fought better to protect his livestock or indeed his father and fellow pastoralists. No calves, lambs or kids fell to the wolves and bears when he was in charge, no poachers or bandits dared trespass on his pastures. Amongst the people of the area he earned another name, ALEXANDER, or ‘defender of men’.

  Before long, Paris met and fell in love with the oread, or mountain nymph, OENONE, a daughter of the river god Cebren.fn31 They married and a paradisal idyll seemed destined for the pair.

  Paris’s passions in life were simple and few: the beautiful Oenone and the welfare of the flocks and herds he looked after for his father (as he thought) Agelaus. He was especially proud of the bull of his herd, a huge white animal with perfectly symmetrical horns and the most marvellous thick and curly forelocks.

  ‘You,’ he told the bull, fondly slapping its flank, ‘are the best bull in the whole world. If ever I saw a finer, I swear I would bow down and crown it with gold. Even the gods don’t have a bull as beautiful as you.’

  Now it so happened that the god Ares, who had a great fondness for Troy and its people, overheard this boast and told Hermes about it.

  ‘Foolish mortal thinks his bull is more beautiful than any one of ours.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Hermes, ‘I sense a lark.’

  ‘A lark?’ said Ares.

  ‘A jest, a jape, a joke. All you have to do is turn yourself into a bull and let me do the rest.’

  Hermes explained the outline of his prank and a smile spread over the war god’s face.

  ‘That’ll teach the brat,’ he said, as he set about his transformation. Ares had no time for shepherds and agriculturalists. They lazed in fields when they could be fighting and killing.

  At that moment, on the grassy lower slopes of Mount Ida, Paris was indeed lazing in a field. He was, in fact, fast asleep. A shadow falling over his face woke him. He looked up and saw a young herdsman gazing down, eyes twinkling.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Paris, isn’t it?’ said that herdsman.

  ‘That’s right. And who might you be?’

  ‘Oh, just a humble drover of cattle. I hear you have a prize bull that you believe to be matchless?’

  ‘That I know to be matchless,’ said Paris.

  ‘I even heard it said that you will crown with gold any beast that’s finer?’

  ‘I did say that, as it happens,’ Paris admitted, puzzled. ‘But I didn’t know anyone was listening.’

  ‘Oh, if you didn’t mean it …’ The herdsman turned to go.

  ‘I meant it,’ said Paris.

  ‘Stay where you are and I’ll fetch mine,’ said the herdsman. ‘I think you might regret your boast.’

  Hermes – for it was, of course, he – went down and drove his bull up the hill to Paris, deriving great pleasure from slapping its rump and flicking its back with a switch, not something any Olympian would normally dare to do to the combative and short-tempered god of war.

  The instant Paris saw Ares-the-Bull, he conceded that this beast was broader, whiter, finer and altogether more handsome than even his own prize animal.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, marvelling at the th
ick coat and shining horns. ‘I thought mine could never be beaten, but this fellow …’ He fell to the ground and began gathering all the celandines, aconites and buttercups he could find in the grass. ‘My crown of gold is nothing more than a wreath of yellow flowers,’ he said to Hermes, arranging a garland around the horns. ‘But give me time to make my fortune and I will find you and reward you with real gold.’

  ‘No need,’ said Hermes, putting his hand on Paris’s shoulder and smiling. ‘Your honesty is reward enough. It’s a rare and beautiful thing. Even rarer and more beautiful than my bull.’

  JUDGEMENT

  Time passed and, beyond mentioning in passing to Oenone the remarkable beauty of the strange bull as an example of how there are more wonders in the world than can be found on the slopes of a mountain, Paris thought no more of the incident. He was most surprised, therefore, to be woken from a pleasant sleep one afternoon not long afterwards by a shadow once more falling over him and for the shadow, after he had sat up and peered with shaded eyes against the sun, again to reveal itself to be that of the young drover.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Paris. ‘I hope you have not come for your gold crown already?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Hermes. ‘I have come for something else. I bring a message from my father Zeus, who calls upon you to do him a great service.’

  Paris knelt in wonder. He saw now – how had he not noticed it the first time? – that the young man’s face shone like that of no mortal. And how could he have missed the live snakes that writhed about his herdsman’s staff, or the wings that fluttered on his sandals? This could only be Hermes, the messenger of the gods.

  ‘What can I, a poor herdsman and shepherd of the fields, do for the King of Heaven?’

  ‘You can get up off your knees for a start, Paris, and come with me.’

  Paris scrambled to his feet and followed Hermes through to a sparsely wooded copse. The god pointed to a clearing, dappled with patches of sunlight, where Paris could make out three shining female forms. He knew at once that these were immortals. Great immortals. Goddesses. Olympian goddesses. He stood transfixed, trying to speak, but all he could do was drop to his knees.

  ‘He does that,’ said Hermes. ‘Up, Paris. Your honesty and unclouded judgement have been noted. We have need of them now. Take this apple. See those words inscribed on it?’

  ‘I can’t make out those marks,’ said Paris, flushing. ‘I never learned.’

  ‘Not to worry. It says, “To the Fairest”. It is for you to choose which of these three is worthy to receive it.’

  ‘But I … I’m just …’

  ‘My father wishes it.’

  Hermes was still smiling, but something in his tone of voice made it clear that he would countenance no denial. Paris took the apple in trembling hands. He looked at the three female figures. Never had he seen such loveliness in all his life. His Oenone was beautiful, the daughter of an immortal herself. He had thought no beauty could ever match hers. But then he had thought the same of his bull.

  The first goddess stepped forward. He knew from the purple silk, the peacock feathers lining her headdress, the fine cheekbones, the grandeur and the proud majesty that this could only be Hera, the Queen of Heaven herself.

  ‘Give me the apple,’ said Hera, coming close and gazing deep into Paris’s eyes, ‘and power and sovereignty over all people shall be yours. Kingdoms and provinces across the wide world shall come under your rule. Imperial sway, riches and dominion such as have been given to no mortal. Your name will ring down in history – Emperor Paris, respected, honoured and beloved of all, obeyed by all.’

  Paris was ready to put the apple straight into her outstretched palm, so clearly was hers the prize. Her beauty filled him with awe and reverence, and the reward she offered would give him everything he had ever dreamed of, and more. He had always felt, somewhere deep inside, that he was destined for greatness, for power and fame. Hera would give it to him. The apple must go to her. But he realized that he had to be fair and allow the other two goddesses at least to make their claims, absurd as they would certainly be beside those of the Queen of Heaven.

  Paris looked towards the second goddess, who was now coming towards him, a grave smile playing on her lips. In the very surface of the shield she bore – by some artifice he could not understand – he could make out the furious and frightened scowl of Medusa. This aegis alone told him that the goddess now before him was Pallas Athena, and her words confirmed his conviction.

  ‘Present me with the apple, Paris, and I shall give you something more than powers and principalities. I offer you wisdom. With wisdom comes everything else – riches and might, if you choose; peace and happiness, if you choose. You will see into the hearts of men and women, into the darkest corners of the cosmos and even into the ways of the immortals. Wisdom will earn you a name that can never perish from the earth. When all the citadels and palaces of the powerful have crumbled into dust, your knowledge and mastery of the arts of war, peace and thought itself will elevate the name of Paris higher than the stars. The power of the mind shatters the mightiest spear.’

  Well, thank goodness I didn’t give the apple straight to Hera, Paris thought. For here is the prize above all prizes. She is right. Of course she is right. Wisdom first, and power and wealth will surely follow. Besides, what use is power without insight and intelligence? The apple must go to Athena.

  He stopped himself from giving it to her when he remembered that there was one more contender for the prize to be heard.

  The third apparition stepped forward, her head tilted demurely down. ‘I cannot offer you wisdom or power,’ she said in a soft voice.

  She lifted her face and Paris was dazzled by the sight. Never had such transcendent radiance met his eyes.

  ‘My name is Aphrodite,’ said the vision, looking shyly up at him from under her lashes. ‘I am not wise or clever, I’m afraid. I cannot win you gold or glory. My only realm is love. Love. It seems so small next to empires of the land and sea, or empires of the mind, doesn’t it? Yet I think you might agree that so insignificant and silly a thing as love – why do we need it after all? – might be worth considering. My offer to you is this …’

  She was holding a scallop shell which she passed to him. When he hesitated, she nodded encouragement.

  ‘Take it and open it, Paris.’

  He did so, and inside the shell, moving and alive, there shone the shimmering image of the most entrancing, captivating, enthralling and bewitching face he had ever seen. It was the face of a young woman. Even as he stared into the shell she raised her chin and seemed to look directly into his eyes. She smiled, and Paris almost lost his balance. Flames leapt to his cheeks; his heart, throat, head and stomach pounded so hard that he thought he might burst apart. The sight of Aphrodite was astounding, but it almost hurt his eyes and he had wanted to look away. This face inside the shell made him want to dive inside.

  ‘Who … who … who?’ was all he could say.

  ‘Her name is HELEN,’ said Aphrodite. ‘If the apple is mine, she will be yours. I will dedicate myself to ensuring that you are together. I will protect you both and defend your union always. That is my oath to you and it cannot be broken.’

  Without a moment’s thought Paris pushed the apple into Aphrodite’s hands. ‘The prize is yours!’ he said hoarsely, and, turning to the others, added, ‘I am sorry, I hope you understand …’

  But Hera and Athena, the one scowling, the other shaking her head in sorrow, had risen up into the air and were now vanishing from sight. When Paris turned to thank Aphrodite, he saw that she too had gone. There was no scallop shell in his hands. He was not standing. He was lying on the grass, the sun scorching his cheeks. Had it all been nothing but an afternoon dream?

  But that face …

  Helen. Helen. Helen.

  Who in the world was Helen?

  FAMILY FEUDS

  Who in the world was Helen?

  We are Icarus and Daedalus, soaring west on feathered wings,
or perhaps we are Zeus the Eagle, bearing the Trojan Prince Ganymede to Olympus in our talons, or we are Bellerophon, striding the air on his winged horse Pegasus. Far below us, the blue Aegean crawls. We break the coastline not far from Mount Pelion, home of Chiron the centaur. We pass over the peak of Mount Othrys, home of the first gods. In its shadow we see the kingdom of Phthia, where Peleus rules over the Myrmidons. His new wife, the sea nymph Thetis, is pregnant with a male child. We will return to them soon enough. Bearing southwest, we overfly the Saronic Gulf; looking down we can make out the island of Salamis, home of Telamon, where his sons Ajax and Teucer live. Ahead of us lies the great peninsula of the Peloponnese, home to some of the great kingdoms of the Greek world. Corinth and Achaea to the north, Theseus’s birthplace of Troezen to the south. Further west lie Pylos and Laconia, but directly below we can make out Argos and its neighbour Mycenae, the mightiest of all the kingdoms. We should take the time to find out who lives there.

  Pelops, son of Tantalus, you remember, having failed to regain his father’s kingdom of Lydia from King Ilus of Troy, came west to Pisa to win King Oenomaus’s daughter Hippodamia in a chariot race.fn32 Pelops won the race, but he and his line were cursed by Myrtilus the charioteer, whom he had cheated.

  Pelops, having killed Oenomaus and won Hippodamia, ruled in Elis, and established there, in the kingdom of Olympia, a four-yearly cycle of athletic contests (which continue to this day as the Olympic Games). He and Hippodamia had two sons, ATREUS and THYESTES.fn33 By the nymph Axioche, Pelops also fathered another boy, CHRYSIPPUS.fn34 Prince LAIUS of Thebes, who had been given refuge in Elis from the internecine violence that was raging in his home city, fell in love with the beautiful Chrysippus and abducted him, thus earning the curse that was to ruin the house of Laius and Laius’s son Oedipus and their descendants. This curse, augmenting the original curse cast on Cadmus, the founder of Thebes, and running down through to the children of Oedipus, might be seen as a mirror image of the curse on the house of Tantalus.fn35