‘Every night I think of my mother. I wonder what she’s like now, whether she has overcome the memory of the fate she had agreed to suffer.’
‘Is that why you came to fight this war? To escape your mother’s tears? Your father’s confusion?’
‘Of course; in part, anyway. But I can vividly remember that night I scraped the stones near your door. The time I spent in that place was endless and terrifying for me, but just meeting Hercules was enough to make it all worthwhile. I’ll never forget him.’
Time flew as we recalled times and emotions gone by, dredging them up from the bottoms of our hearts, as the air around us grew dark and the sea slowly calmed. We were sometimes silent: another way of sharing our common memories and drawing strength from those we had loved. We were startled by the voice of a herald and the heavy footfalls of a man clad in bronze. ‘Wanax Odysseus, you are summoned to the council of kings and princes, immediately. The Trojan herald, noble Ideus, is here at the camp and has asked to be received by the council and to present a request.’
The man covered in bronze was Diomedes.
‘We need someone who can use words better than a sword,’ he continued.
I laid a hand on Eumelus’ shoulder: ‘I have to go, pai, this may be important. But I see that you have a splendid team yoked to your chariot and I hope you’ll be back soon to show me what they’re worth at a gallop.’
Eumelus smiled and embraced me: ‘Whenever you want, wanax, they’ll be waiting for you!’
Almost all of the commanders had already gathered at the circle on the seashore, with torches lit all around. Others were still arriving, depending on how far their tents were from the meeting place. Then Agamemnon asked for silence and turned the floor over to the herald.
‘I come on behalf of King Priam,’ said Ideus. ‘An assembly was held this evening. Noble Antenor proposed, first of all, that we return Helen and pay reparations, and secondly that we ask for a truce to allow us to bury our dead. Paris responded to the first request stating that he would be willing to give back all the treasure taken as booty and add more as reparation, but that he would not return Helen under any circumstances. King Priam supports the request for a truce. I have come to obtain your approval for this and return to Troy, if possible, with an agreeable response.’
Antenor had never ceased in his attempts to stop the bloody war and return Helen, but Paris was still strong and Priam was not yet ready to contradict him.
Diomedes, who was standing next to me, stepped up to speak, even before Menelaus. ‘I say we refuse Paris’ proposal: we simply cannot accept. What’s more, if they’ve come forward with this request, it means that their people are tired of the war and don’t want to pay for the prince’s errors with more blood. They’ve realized that we can win, even without Achilles. On the other hand, we can accept the proposal of a truce. It is only right that each side gathers up their dead and celebrates proper funeral rites.’
Menelaus spoke next: ‘Diomedes has expressed my own thoughts. A sacred right that we all swore to protect has been violated, and making amends can only mean one thing, exactly what wise Antenor has proposed: Helen’s return. We cannot accept other proposals.’
The others spoke up to say things that left no room at all for negotiations. I was surprised that no one asked me to speak. The reason became clear to me when Agamemnon asked me to accompany Ideus on my own to the edge of the battlefield, after he had exchanged courteous words with the herald and asked him to thank Antenor for his judicious words to the assembly.
‘Noble Ideus,’ I began as soon as we had started walking, ‘wanax Diomedes and wanax Menelaus could say nothing different from what they said, but now no one can hear us and we can use other words, different ones; perhaps we can seek another, less impervious path to our goal.’
‘I’m listening, King Odysseus. Many in Troy remember your wise speech and believe that had we listened to you then much heartache would have been avoided.’
‘There is a possible solution. What King Priam and King Menelaus cannot accept in the light of the sun can be done in the darkness of night, with a secret agreement.’
Ideus stopped and sought my eyes in the gloom. ‘Speak,’ he said.
‘Turn Helen over to me. I’ll be at the old port, in disguise, whenever it suits you. With a symbolic token of reparation. Huge quantities of bronze, gold and silver are not the likely companions of a man seeking to escape notice.’
‘Would Menelaus accept?’
‘No one can resist Helen, least of all Menelaus. Taking her back to Sparta would be a sufficient trophy for him.’
I had hoped that Ideus had been given the authority to negotiate; what I’d proposed would resolve everything, restore life to two peoples and allow all of us to stop thinking about death day after day. His brief silence filled me with anxiety.
‘It’s very unlikely they’ll agree to it,’ he answered, finally. ‘Now it’s Hector who is the biggest obstacle. Not even Andromache, his wife, who begs him not to expose himself to danger, can hold him back. He thinks he can win. He’s a warrior, and the glory of defeating the greatest army of all times, of drowning it in the sea and burning its ships, would turn him into a god for the people of his city. That is a prize too big to give up. He would refuse what you’re proposing and without him we can’t do it. Nevertheless, I will try. If I can arrange what you suggest, in three days’ time you’ll see a light at the foot of the wild fig, at this time of night. Tomorrow the truce for gathering up the dead will be in force.’
I nodded. He said nothing about Achilles. He did not mention his name, nor did I. But his ghost was there between us, a mute giant whose absence made the winds of war favour our enemies.
Each of us went off on his own road.
The next day, before the sun rose, the gates of Troy opened and families streamed out over the field covered with dead bodies. The Achaians mixed with them, disentangling and separating the cadavers that were still bound together in the final spasms of combat. Both sides loaded the dead onto carts.
The pyres burned all night and every night, as long as the truce was in force. Only the commanders were given the honour of having their names shouted out ten times by the warriors drawn up in formation. Their swords were ritually bent and their remains were preserved in finely decorated, well-made urns. All the others became ashes without a name, covered up by earth or blown off on the wind. On the third day, I spent the night scanning the plain but I saw no light illuminating the trunk of the wild fig tree. No hope.
When we started fighting again, it became clear that neither our bravery or strength, nor the passion we poured into winning honour on the field of battle, was enough to keep the Trojans away from our camp. They were the ones assaulting us; it was they who launched the attacks. We had to resort to digging a deep trench and erecting a rampart with a palisade to defend our ships. If the enemy managed to burn them, our fates would be sealed. It was an enormous structure that could be seen from a great distance. We raised it in no time; a monument to our fear.
On the night that we finished the sky grew black with storm clouds and the roar of thunder made the earth shake. We were together in Agamemnon’s tent, drinking wine. I saw the glimmering red liquid tremble in my cup. I watched as Menelaus grew pale. This was a terrible omen.
But the truce was over. The next day, Hector led his men into an attack. We climbed the rampart and crossed the trench and drew up our ranks. Agamemnon gave a shout and raised his arm, brandishing his spear, from on high on his chariot. We rushed forward. We ran, closely united, one alongside the other, without thinking, our minds empty, our hearts seeming to burst in our chests, our breath not finding a way out from between clenched, gnashing teeth, our feet devouring the space that still separated us from impact, from the mouth of Hades. Myriad shields clashed, raising an unearthly uproar to the skies. The ground turned red in an instant, slippery with spilt blood. The sky was black above us. Enormous, swollen, yellow-rimmed clouds sailed above us
, bursting with thunderbolts, but no rain, only blood, everywhere, and we were blinded by the red as we were slashed and crushed and we shouted, shouted, shouted!
A flash of lightning struck the tip of Ajax son of Telamon’s spear. The giant fell to his knees. Swarms of arrows were flying everywhere, men fell to the ground, others took shelter behind their shields. Terrified, we began to retreat: Zeus himself was fighting against us! Diomedes himself pulled back, as did both Ajaxes, and Idomeneus. Nestor, who had advanced too far on his chariot, remained isolated. An arrow struck one of his horses on top of his head between his ears, piercing into his brain. The horse collapsed to the ground and the old warrior fell over as well. He struggled to his feet and stood, alone, next to the overturned chariot. Hector was closing in on him, charging at him, unrestrained. I could see it happening but I was terror-stricken and I ran the other way, fleeing. Diomedes shouted: ‘Odysseus! Where are you running to? Turn back, defend the old man, he’ll never make it alone!’ But I was past any understanding, I wasn’t hearing, wasn’t feeling, wasn’t breathing, was left with nothing: no strength, no courage, no shame.
I heard Diomedes screaming again: ‘You’ll die with a spear in your back, you coward!’ I crossed the ditch, the palisade, took shelter on my ship, and hid.
The din of the battle, crashing furiously against the wall, reached all the way to where I was but it didn’t touch me, bent in two under the benches, weeping. Hiding. I could feel how cold it was and I wanted darkness to come, wanted the night black as pitch to cover me, cover the camp and the ships and the faces of the living and the dead.
Darkness, dense shadows, burning tears. And finally, silence.
HOW MUCH TIME passed, how much pain? I finally got to my feet. The wind was blowing from the mountains and I climbed up the ship’s mast, reached the top, panting, and looked out over the plain. Fires were burning in the deep gloom, hundreds, thousands, myriads of fires. There would be no truce, no way out this time. Hector besieged us, waiting for dawn, as patient as a starving wolf. He was waiting to mount the final attack and end the war. Then I saw fires being lit in the camp, on this side of the rampart. I heard shouting and the long blaring of the horn.
Time went by, silence, then a voice. The voice of the son of Tydeus, wild and indomitable.
‘The old man wants to talk to you,’ said Diomedes. ‘Agamemnon, too. In his tent.’
‘Talk to me? About what?’
‘Achilles has to come back. Nothing else can save us. Everything is against us.’
He said nothing about my ignominious flight, and I was grateful to him for that. I followed him to Agamemnon’s tent.
I found him sitting with Nestor, Idomeneus, both of the Ajaxes, Menelaus and his heralds. Diomedes sat down with them and I next to him.
Nestor, whose face and body still showed signs of his ruinous fall, turned to me: ‘Agamemnon has recognized his error and is ready and willing to make amends, but you must convince Achilles to come back and fight at our side. The Trojans are much bolder and more aggressive now that they know that Achilles won’t fight, and we do not have the strength to win without him. Agamemnon offers as reparation enormous riches in bronze, gold and silver, one of his daughters in marriage with seven villages as her dowry, fertile fields with herds and flocks, grapevines and olive trees, and seven beautiful maidens, including Briseis, whom Achilles so loved and who was unjustly taken from him. Agamemnon swears on his honour that he has not touched her; he has not taken her into his bed and she herself will confirm that. Go, Odysseus, only you can convince him. He trusts you.’
Agamemnon spoke next. His face was pale and he seemed exhausted with the strain of combat and lack of sleep. ‘Take his cousin Ajax, whom he esteems greatly, with you. Convince him, Odysseus, and you will forever have my gratitude and that of my brother Menelaus.’
I saw that Diomedes was watching me as well, waiting to see what intentions I had.
I answered: ‘I will go because I suffer to see my comrades, our warriors, slaughtered on that blood-soaked field. I can only hope that Athena will guide us and inspire our words.’
We left and headed towards Achilles’ camp, walking along the seashore. A lamp burned inside the tent, casting a dim glow all around. Patroclus was awake and saw us coming. He came to meet us and led us inside to meet with his friend Achilles, the stubborn, vexed warrior still thirsting for revenge.
Achilles greeted us like old friends: ‘Odysseus, Ajax, what brings you here in the middle of the night? Shouldn’t you be in bed resting? I’m happy in any case to see you, to welcome you to join me here in my tent, to offer you a cup of wine and exchange a few words.’
‘Achilles, you know well why we’ve come. Don’t you hear the screams of our comrades? Haven’t you noticed the pyres burning for days? Listen to what I have to say: Agamemnon has realized that he has wronged you and he wants to make amends. He offers you great riches, one of his daughters in marriage with seven cities as a dowry, and seven beautiful women, including your beloved Briseis. He swears that he has not touched her, that he has respected her . . .’
He was shaking his head even as I spoke and my words died in my throat.
‘No, my friend. No, I don’t trust him, I don’t believe him, I have no respect for him. His words are air for me. And what’s more, it’s too late. I’ve decided: I’m leaving, Odysseus. Tomorrow I’ll set sail and if the weather assists me we’ll be home in three or four days. Home, do you understand that? We’ve spent years and years in this bloody, horrible place. We’ve forgotten everything, neglected everything else, wasted years of our lives. Life, Odysseus! Our only true treasure! One of his daughters? I’d never marry her even if she were more beautiful than Aphrodite. There are lots of pretty girls where I come from, you know? Daughters of illustrious, noble men of great lineage. I don’t need his gifts. My father has a palace full of gifts. I can’t even imagine how happy my old atta will be to see me. And what are you all worried about anyway? You’ve built a rampart and a palisade. That should be enough to stop Hector, shouldn’t it?’
He was playing with us. But I tried again. I couldn’t give up. ‘Don’t you care about your comrades? You’ve seen them coming back from the battlefield wounded and bloodied. You’ve seen them burning on the pyres. Won’t you forgo your revenge, for them?’
‘No, Odysseus. None of what happened is my fault. He treated me like nothing, took away the woman I loved, humiliated me in front of everyone. I fought for him for years and years, I conquered scores of villages and cities, I brought enormous treasure back to him. I did not deserve what he did to me. No. I could have killed him like a dog, but I spared his life so war would not break out among us and destroy the entire army. No, really, I cannot give him this satisfaction. On the contrary, tell the others they should follow my example. You too, Odysseus. You should all go back home. This damned city will never fall.’
‘Don’t go, Achilles!’ I pleaded with him.
‘Forget it,’ said Ajax. ‘He couldn’t care less about us. We can all die as far as he’s concerned and he wouldn’t move a finger. And all over a woman. While we’re offering him seven!’
I smiled sadly at my friend’s artlessness, but I had to admit he had a point. There was nothing that would convince Achilles to take up arms again.
Patroclus hadn’t opened his mouth through any of this, nor did Achilles ever ask him what he thought. Patroclus was simply his shadow, his double. I got up, ready to go back and report on the unhappy outcome of my mission . . .
‘Odysseus . . .’
I turned. Was there still hope?
‘Maybe . . . maybe I won’t leave tomorrow.’
There was nothing else I could ask him and I knew I couldn’t insist, but Achilles’ words left me a glimmer of hope.
It was quite late by the time we returned. Agamemnon’s tent was lit and the other kings were waiting for us.
‘Well?’ they asked, gathering around us.
‘Nothing doing. He’s adamant. He
even said that the rest of us should follow his example and leave.’
‘Let him go wherever the hell he wants!’ said Diomedes. ‘We’ll fight without him. Each one of us will speak to our own men and we’ll steel them to the fight. Every battle is different from the next. Today we had trouble, tomorrow victory could be ours.’
The meeting broke up, each of us going our own way.
I looked northward, at the long line of beached ships. In Achilles’ tent the light was still on.
29
THE FAILURE OF MY MISSION had made it clear to all of us that we had no alternative but to fight. Turning tail and going home was unthinkable.
The one who felt this most acutely was Agamemnon. He was, after all, our high commander, king of the Achaian kings. His quarrel with Achilles had made him look bad in the men’s eyes and had destroyed their fighting spirit, their willingness to take on further sacrifices. It was up to him to set the right example now. He had to be the first to lay his life on the line, prove to them that he deserved the power he exercised with his sceptre.
That was my advice to him. I urged him to concentrate the greatest number of chariots in the area of the front line from which the Trojans would least expect a swift, sudden attack; that is, as far as possible from the access to the rampart and the camp, where our ships were beached. He approved my reasoning and went to ready himself for the battle.
He appeared on his chariot wearing armour that no one had ever seen before. It was blinding, studded with enamel, silver and bronze. On his arm was a huge shield with a Gorgon at the centre, and on his head a double-crested, winged helmet. He was truly an incredible sight. Everyone understood instantly that it would be his day, if only the god who protected Hector would train his gaze elsewhere. Agamemnon’s new armour and the change in his colours would make him look like a new, unknown warrior to the enemy. He would seem glorious and dreadful in their eyes and they would surely mistake him for a god or a demigod. Perhaps not even the gods would recognize him at first! His altered appearance had imbued him with overwhelming power and energy.
Odysseus: The Oath Page 30
