An Iliad

by Alessandro Baricco

  Thersites

  They all knew me. I was the ugliest man who went to the siege of Troy: bowlegged, lame, shoulders humped and curving in over my chest; a pointed head covered by a scraggly fuzz. I was famous because I liked to insult the kings, all the kings: the Achaeans listened to me and laughed. And so the kings of the Achaeans hated me. I want to tell you what I know, so that you, too, will understand what I understood: war is an obsession of old men, who send the young to fight.

  Agamemnon was in his tent and he was sleeping. Suddenly he seemed to hear the voice of Nestor, who was the oldest of us all, our most beloved and respected sage. The voice said, “Agamemnon, son of Atreus, here you are sleeping, you who command an entire army and should have so many things to do.” Agamemnon didn’t open his eyes. He thought he was dreaming. Then the voice drew closer and said, “Listen to me, I have a message for you from Zeus, who is watching you from far away, and feels sorrow and pity for you. He orders you to arm the Achaeans at once, because today you will be able to take Troy by force. The gods, all of them, will be on your side, and your enemies will be doomed. Don’t forget this when sweet sleep abandons you, and you wake. Don’t forget this message from Zeus.”

  Then the voice vanished. Agamemnon opened his eyes. He didn’t see the old man Nestor, who slipped silently out of the tent. He thought he had been dreaming, and that in his dream he had seen himself the victor. Then he rose and put on a new tunic, beautiful and soft, and over it a sweeping cloak. He put on his best sandals, and over his shoulder slung the silver-studded sword. Finally he seized the scepter of his fathers and, holding it tight in his fist, set out for the ships of the Achaeans, while Aurora announced the light of day to Zeus and all the immortals. He ordered the heralds, with their clear voices, to call the Achaeans to an assembly, and when they had all gathered he summoned first the noble princes of the council. He told them his dream. Then he said, “Today we’ll arm the Achaeans and attack. But first I want to test the army, as is my right. I’ll tell the soldiers that I have decided to give up the war and return home. You will try to persuade them to stay and continue the fight. I want to see what happens.”

  The noble princes were silent, uncertain what to think. Then Nestor the old man rose, Nestor himself, and he said, “Friends, leaders and rulers of the Achaeans, if any one of us should recount such a dream, we wouldn’t listen to that man, thinking that he was lying. But he who dreamed it claims to be the best among the Achaeans. Therefore I say: let us go and arm our men.” Then he rose and left the council. The others saw him going, and, as if following their shepherd, they all rose, in turn, and went to assemble their men.

  As dense swarms of bees emerge from the hollow of a rock and cluster over the spring flowers and disperse, flying from place to place, so the ranks of men came out of their tents and ships and lined up along the shore for the assembly. The earth rumbled under their feet, and everywhere chaos reigned. Nine heralds, shouting, tried to subdue the clamor so that all might hear the voice of the kings who were to speak. In the end they managed to make us sit, and the tumult ceased.

  Then Agamemnon rose. He held in his hand the scepter that Hephaestus had made long ago. Hephaestus had given it to Zeus, the son of Cronus, and Zeus gave it to Hermes, the swift messenger. Hermes gave it to Pelops, tamer of horses, and Pelops to Atreus, shepherd of peoples. Atreus, dying, left it to Thyestes, rich in flocks, and from Thyestes Agamemnon received it, so that he might rule over all Argos and the many islands. It was the scepter of his power. He held it tight and said, “Danaans, heroes, followers of Ares, cruel Zeus has condemned me to a brutal fate. First he promised, he vowed, that I would go home only after destroying Ilium with its beautiful walls, and now he wants me to return to Argos without glory, and having sent so many of my men to their death. What a disgrace: a vast, shining armada battles a paltry force, and yet the end is still not in sight. We are ten times as many as the Trojans. But they have brave allies, who have come from other cities, and this, finally, will keep me from taking Troy the magnificent. Nine years have passed. For nine years our wives and our children have been at home waiting for us. The wood of our ships has rotted, and all the ropes are frayed. Hear me: let us flee on our ships and return home. We are never going to take the city of Troy.”

  Thus he spoke, and his words struck us to the heart. The immense assembly was shaken like a sea in a hurricane, like a field of grain tossed by a stormy wind. And I saw the people charge toward the ships, shouting with joy and raising a huge cloud of dust. They spurred one another to seize the ships and haul them down to the divine sea. They cleaned the keel channels, and, as they pulled the blocks out from under the hulls, their cries of yearning rose to the sky.

  Then I saw Odysseus. Wily Odysseus. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t gone to the ships. Anguish consumed his heart. Suddenly he threw off his cloak and hurried toward Agamemnon. He tore the scepter from his hand and without a word headed for the ships. And to the princes of the council he called out, “Stop. Don’t you remember what Agamemnon said to us? He is testing them, but afterward he will punish them. Stop, and they, seeing you, will stop!” And with the scepter he beat any soldier he encountered, saying, “Stay here, you fool! Don’t run away, you coward and deserter. Look at your leaders and learn from them.” In the end he managed to stop them. From the ships and the tents they turned back, like the sea when it roars up onto the shore and then recedes, making all Ocean echo.

  It was then that I decided to have my say. There, in front of them all, that day, I spoke. “Hey you, Agamemnon, what more do you want? What are you complaining about? Your tent is full of bronze, and full of beautiful women, too: the ones you choose when we give them to you after stealing them from their homes. Maybe you want more gold, brought by the Trojan fathers to ransom their sons, whom we take prisoner on the battlefield? Or is it a new woman you want, a woman to take to your bed, all for yourself? No, it’s not right for a king to lead the sons of the Danaans to disaster. My friends, don’t be cowards. Let’s go home and leave him here in Troy to enjoy his spoils, then he’ll see if we were useful or not. He has dishonored Achilles, a warrior a thousand times as great as he.

  He has taken away Achilles’ share of the spoils and now keeps it for himself. As for anger—if Achilles were really burning with rage, you, Agamemnon, would not be here insulting us again.”

  The Achaeans stood and listened to me. Many of them were enraged with Agamemnon because of what had happened with Achilles. So they listened to me. Agamemnon said nothing. But Odysseus, well, he came over to me. “You speak eloquently,” he said to me. “But you speak like an idiot. You are the lowest of the low, you know, Thersites? The lowest of all the soldiers who came to the walls of Troy. You enjoy insulting Agamemnon, the king of kings, only because you Achaean fighters have brought him so many prizes. But I tell you, and I swear to you, that if I catch you saying stupid things like this again, I will take hold of you and strip off your clothes—cloak, tunic, everything—and send you naked back to the ships, wailing from a beating you won’t forget.” And so speaking, he began to hit me on the shoulders and the back with the scepter. I cringed under the blows. The blood dripped thick on my cloak, and I howled in pain and humiliation. Frightened, I fell to the ground. I lay there, dazed, drying my tears, while all around they laughed at me.

  Then Odysseus raised the scepter, turned toward Agamemnon, and in a loud voice, so that all could hear him, he said, “Son of Atreus, the Achaeans today wish to make you the most wretched among mortals. They promised to destroy Ilium the fair and now instead they are weeping like boys, like miserable widows, and they ask to return home. Certainly I can’t blame them: we’ve been here for nine years, when a mere month’s absence from our wives would make us long to return. And yet what dishonor it would be to abandon the battlefield when we have spent so much time and gained nothing.

  Friends, we must be patient still. Do you remember the day we assembled in Aulis, ready to depart, on our way to destroy Priam and the
Trojans? Do you remember what happened? We were offering sacrifices to the gods near a spring, under a lovely, light-dappled plane tree. And suddenly a serpent with a blood-red back, a horrible monster that Zeus himself had created, emerged from under the altars and slithered up the tree. There was a nest of swallows above, and he went up and devoured all of them: eight little ones and the mother. And immediately afterward he was turned to stone. We saw it all and were struck dumb. But Calchas—do you remember what Calchas said? ‘It’s a sign,’ he said. ‘Zeus has sent us a sign. It is an omen of infinite glory. Just as the serpent devoured eight little ones and the mother, so we will have to fight in Ilium for nine years. But in the tenth year we will take Troy and its broad streets.’ This he said to us. And today you see that prophecy fulfilled before your eyes. Listen to me, Achaeans with your weapons of war. Do not run away. Stay here. And we will capture the great city of Priam.”

  Thus he spoke. The Achaeans gave a loud shout, and the ships resounded with the tremendous clamor of their enthusiasm. Just then, the old man Nestor spoke again, saying, “Agamemnon, return and lead us into battle with your old indomitable will. No one wants to hurry home before he’s slept with the wife of a Trojan, to avenge what we’ve suffered for the abduction of Helen. And I tell you that if anyone, in his foolishness, decides to go, then he won’t get as far as his black ship before he meets his destined death.”

  In silence they listened to him. Old men … Agamemnon almost bowed. “Yet again, old man, you’ve spoken wisely.” Then he looked out over all of us and said, “Go and prepare, because today we will attack. Eat, sharpen your spears, get your shields ready, feed the swift horses well, check your chariots: we’ll fight all day, and only night will separate the fury of men. Your chests will drip with sweat under the heavy shields, and your hands will grow weary holding the spears. But anyone who dares to flee the battle and take shelter near the ships is a dead man.”

  Then they all gave a huge cry and scattered among the ships. Each went to prepare himself for battle. Some ate, some sharpened their weapons, some prayed, some made sacrifices to the gods, hoping to escape death. Soon the kings of divine descent assembled the men and drew them up in their battle lines, rushing among them and urging them on. And suddenly for us all it became sweeter to fight than to return to our homeland. We marched in our bronze armor, and we were like a fire that you watch from a distance as it devours a forest: you see the bright shining flames flaring into the sky. We descended to the plain of Scamander like a huge flock of birds that descends from the sky and lands on the meadow with a great din, wings beating hard. The earth rumbled under the feet of men and the hooves of horses. We stopped near the river, before Troy. We were thousands, as many as the flowers in spring, and we wished for one thing only: the blood of battle.

  Hector and his allies, the foreign princes, assembled their men and came out of the city, on foot or with horses. We heard an immense commotion. We saw them ascending the hill of Bateia, a hill that rose, isolated, in the middle of the plain. There they ranged themselves, under the command of their chiefs. They began to move toward us, shouting like birds in the sky that with their screeching cries proclaim a mortal struggle. And we marched toward them, but in silence, with the anger hidden in our hearts. The footsteps of our armies raised a dust that, like a fog, like a night, consumed everything.

  Finally we came face-to-face. We stopped. And then, suddenly, from the ranks of the Trojans Paris stepped forth, like a god, a leopard skin flung over his shoulders. He was equipped with bow and sword. In one hand he held two bronze-tipped spears, and he shook them at us, challenging the Achaean chiefs. When Menelaus saw him, he rejoiced like a hungry lion who hurls himself on the body of a deer and devours it. He thought that the moment had come to take revenge on the man who had stolen his wife. And he leaped out of his chariot, grasping his weapons. Paris saw him and his heart trembled. He turned away, among his men, to avoid death. Like a man who sees a snake and immediately jumps back, shaking, and flees, his face pale, so we saw him run, until Hector stopped him, shouting, “Damn you, Paris, you seducer, liar. Don’t you see that the Achaeans are mocking you? They thought you were a hero because they were impressed by your beauty. But now they know you have no courage and no strength of mind—you who, a guest of Menelaus, in a foreign land, carried off his wife and came home with that beautiful woman at your side. But they are a warrior people, Paris, and you have become the ruin of your father, of your city, of all your countrymen. And now you won’t confront Menelaus? Too bad, you might find out what sort of man he is whose wife you stole. And you would roll in the dust, and discover how useless your lyre is, and your handsome face, and your hair. Ah, we are truly cowards, we Trojans: otherwise you would be buried under a pile of stones by now, to pay for all the evil you have done.”

  Then Paris answered, “You’re right, Hector. But what a heart you have, inflexible, like an axe that plunges straight into the wood. You reproach me for my beauty … but we can’t despise the gifts of the gods, the talents they’ve given us: can we refuse them? Do we have any choice in them? Listen to me: if you want me to fight a duel, have all the Trojans and all the Achaeans sit down, and let Menelaus and me, in front of the two armies, fight for Helen. The one who wins will take the woman and all her wealth. And as for you, Trojans and Achaeans, you will make a pact of peace, and the Trojans will live again in the fertile land of Troy, and the Achaeans will return to Argos, to their treasures and their beautiful women.”

  Hector’s joy was great when he heard those words. He walked, alone, between the two armies and, raising his spear to the sky, made a sign to the Trojans to stop. And they obeyed. We immediately began to take aim at him with arrows and stones, and then Agamemnon cried, “Stop! Achaeans, do not strike him, Hector wants to speak!” and then we, too, stopped. There was a great silence. And in that silence Hector spoke to the two armies: “Listen to me! Hear what Paris says, the man who caused this war. He wants you to lay down your arms, and asks to fight alone against Menelaus, and let a duel decide who will have Helen and her wealth.”

  The armies remained silent. Then the powerful voice of Menelaus was heard. “Listen to me as well: I am the offended one and more than anyone else have a wrong to avenge. Stop fighting, because by now you have all suffered too much from this war that Paris started. I will fight him, and destiny will decide which of us two must die. You find a way to make peace as quickly as possible. Let the Achaeans go and offer a lamb to Zeus. And you, Trojans, get a white lamb and a black one, for the Earth and the Sun. And summon the great king Priam, so that he may sanction the peace: his sons are proud and not to be trusted, but he is an old man, and old men know how to look at the past and the future together, and understand what’s best for all. Have him come and seal the peace: and may no one dare to break a pact sanctioned in the name of Zeus.”

  I heard his words and then I saw the joy of those two armies, suddenly united by the hope of putting an end to the agonies of war. I saw the warriors descend from their chariots and take off their arms and lay them on the ground, covering the plain with bronze. I had never seen peace so close. Then I turned and looked for Nestor, the old sage Nestor. I wanted to look him in the eyes, and in his eyes see war die, and the arrogance of those who wish for it, and the folly of those who fight it.

  Helen

  Like a slave, I was silent in my rooms that day, forced to weave on a blood-colored cloth the exploits of the Trojans and the Achaeans in that grievous war fought for me. Suddenly Laodice, the most beautiful of Priam’s daughters, entered and called to me, “Hurry, Helen, come and look down, Trojans and Achaeans … they were all on the plain, eager for blood and about to fight, and now they are silent, facing each other, with their shields resting on the ground and their spears planted in the earth … It’s said that the war has stopped, and that Paris and Menelaus are going to fight for you: you’ll be the winner’s prize.”

  Suddenly, listening to her, I wanted to cry, because I felt a powerfu
l yearning for the man I had married, and for my family, and my country. I wrapped myself in a shining white veil and ran to the wall, my eyes still filled with tears. When I reached the tower above the Scaean gates I saw the old men of Troy, who had gathered there to watch what was happening on the plain. They were too old to fight, but they liked to talk—and in that they were masters. Like cicadas in a tree, they never stopped to listen to their own voices. I heard them murmuring, when they saw me, “It’s not surprising that Trojans and Achaeans should kill one another for that woman— doesn’t she seem a goddess? But I wish the ships would take her away, her and her beauty, or our ruin and that of our children will never end.” Thus they spoke, but without daring to look at me. The only one who looked was Priam. “Come, daughter,” he said to me, raising his voice. “Come and sit beside me. You aren’t to blame in all this. It’s the gods who have brought this misfortune on me. Come, from here you can see your husband, and your relatives, your friends … Tell me, who is that imposing man, that noble Achaean warrior? Others are taller but I have never seen one so handsome, so stately: he has the look of a king.”

  Then I went to him and answered, “I honor and fear you, Priam, father of my new husband. Oh, if only I had had the courage to die rather than follow your son here, abandoning my marriage bed, and my daughter, still a child, and my beloved companions … but it was not so, and now I am worn out with weeping. But you want to know who that man is. He is the son of Atreus, Agamemnon, the most powerful king and a brave fighter: at one time, if that time ever existed, he was the brother-in-law of this worthless woman who is now talking to you.”